


Still Just You (Still Just Me)

by Ruto



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Narrator Chara, Post-True Pacifist, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:38:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 35,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6090346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruto/pseuds/Ruto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frisk sees a bright new future ahead after making it out of the Underground. Chara, who remains bound to their SOUL, plays the role of narrator for lack of anything better to do. Together, they navigate life on the surface.</p><p>An episodic story with occasional plot.</p><p>[ HIATUS ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. mirror

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where I'm going with this. We'll see.

High on the mountaintop, you watch the sunset with all of your friends. The sky is glittering gold. The air is fresh and clean, and it doesn’t seem as thin as it did on the way up. You can breathe easily. You can’t remember the last time you felt this at peace.

When everyone else has gone and it’s just you and Toriel standing there, she asks if you’ll stay with her.

You say yes.

You didn’t come here in the first place because you had anywhere else to go.

You’re ready to start over.

 

☆ ☆ ☆

The taste of butterscotch-cinnamon pie never gets old, and you like how the whole house smells delicious for a long while after it’s been put into the oven.

Smells like home.

Papyrus and Undyne barge in one afternoon and try to help Toriel bake. You are not surprised by the result: the pie turns out borderline inedible. The texture is dry and... rubbery. Like a car tire. You have a hard time recognizing it as food at all. Bratty and Catty’s literal garbage is more appealing to you.

But knowing how much effort was put into this pie fills you with determination; you soldier on and eat it anyway.

You see Sans wink at you from across the table (he wasn't there a second ago) as you make this great sacrifice for your friends’ sake. You think he’s glad you threw his brother a bone.

You found that pun bad, but face it. It’s not any worse than anything that comedian’s ever come up with.

You stick your fork into the heavily smoking slice of pie and recall how nobody ever used to cook for you before.

It doesn’t taste so bad after that.

 

☆ ☆ ☆

You stare into the mirror sometimes. You think you look different, somehow. That your reflection changed after you came back to the surface.

You don’t see my face in the mirror, Frisk. You know that.

It’s still just you.

But happier.

...

You smile.


	2. wish / promise

You feel like you’re the luckiest person on the entire planet despite everything that’s happened to you. You have the life you gave up on finding when you climbed that mountain.

You have a mom who’s always there to give you a big hug before you leave the house and one right when you come back. 

You have more friends than you’ve ever hoped for (you’ve never had any before) and they’re not going anywhere. 

(They would have to physically restrain Papyrus to keep him from hanging out with you.)

You're the ambassador of all monsterkind.

You know you’re wanted. You’re excited for the future.

But as you think this, you frown, and you feel bad, because you know _I’m_ listening. You know _I’m_ always here.

☆ ☆ ☆

You sit down on your bed. The sheets are clean; Toriel washed them for you. Smells like floral detergent.

It’s 11:11 P.M. For some reason, you still believe in making wishes at this exact time like they’re actually going to come true, even though that’s something only little kids believe in anymore.

You decide to ignore me in spite of _actually_ knowing deep down that I’m right.

Don’t give me that look, Frisk.

Whatever.

You clasp your hands and close your eyes, brow furrowed. You're considering your wish carefully.

You wish Asriel could have gotten a second chance at life.

...

You wish that _I_ could have—

Because this isn’t the same—

You only get one wish, Frisk. You know those are the rules.

☆ ☆ ☆

You finally fell asleep. It took a while. I’m pretending to sit on the edge of your bed; my feet dangling, not reaching the floor. I can’t really interact with anything, and you’re the only one who’d be able to see me here, because I’m a spirit who’s bound to your SOUL like a parasite and neither of us know how to get rid of me.

This warm bed and the inside of your brain are both far more comfortable than that cold, hard coffin or the dirt beneath the buttercups, but I don’t want to sleep tonight. I’m too _restless_.

...

Frisk.

You don’t hate humanity for what it’s put you through.

You never wanted the revenge I tried and failed to get.

Even though we both went to Mt. Ebott for the same reason.

You’re such a softie. It’s disgusting. You’re just like Asriel before everything went to hell.

You make me wonder if I ever made stupid wishes with him. 

Maybe there were no wishes. Only promises: that pact that ended in our deaths.

I want to take that worn dagger and _cut these thoughts out of my head._


	3. overcast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading so far!

Sans figured it out all the way back in the Underground. He knows why you fell.

You’ve never told him.

But he knows. 

He’s always been annoyingly good at reading faces.

Sometimes, you have bad days. You haven’t forgotten your _reasons_. You never will.

School got out ten minutes ago and you haven't left the grounds. You have homework to do and you know you probably aren't going to get around to it. You're staring up at the gray sky and a cold chill gives your skin goosebumps. In your peripheral vision you notice Sans is standing several feet away, watching you. Your expression. You aren't sure when he got here. 

You wish you had a mirror on hand so you could see what he sees. 

He’s smiling, but you know that doesn’t mean anything with Sans.

...

Smells like rain.

“whatcha thinking, kid?"

He approaches.

You continue to gaze upwards, entranced. Your shoulders are drooping. They feel heavy. You slowly shake your head.

“yeah, i know the feeling."

He puts both hands in his hoodie's pockets.

“the sky’s real neat, huh? even like this. lots of stuff up there.”

You nod, not tearing your eyes away from the immensely fascinating nothingness above your head. The cloud cover is like a smooth slate.

“i was thinking grillbz. how bout you?"

You finally lower your head to look at Sans.

“I’m not up for that today," you confess. It's not the food that's the problem.

“hmm.” 

“Sorry. Some other time, I promise."

Big promises, small promises, you always keep your word. No matter what.

“want me to pick you up some fries?"

“Would you really?"

“actually the name's sans, not really."

You say nothing for a moment, processing the joke. I think the _execution_ could have used some work. He won’t get any _points_ from me.

“...Not really?" you ask in a deadpan. “Then what is it?"

Sans chuckles just a little bit. You smile just a little bit.

“i'll have him put it on your tab," he tells you, and you huff, feigning annoyance.

Not much time later, Sans is reappearing out of the weird “shortcut" he took (behind a tree, this time) to bring you a plate of fries and a bonus milkshake to go along with it. You’ll have to pay for that too, you know.

You both sit down on a bench in the empty schoolyard. I sit cross-legged on the grass in front of you. Sans produces a bottle of ketchup from a pocket in his hoodie and pours some on your fries before taking a swig. You are not fazed by this. I find it repulsive. Who does that? Papyrus doesn't do that. Where does it go? Is there ketchup running through his bones?

You snort and ask Sans where the ketchup goes.

“that’s my secret," he says. “a magician never reveals his secrets.”

You're a comedian. And you’re testing my patience.

You take too big of a sip from the milkshake and flinch.

“brain freeze? ouch. i cold have told you to be careful.”

You roll your eyes. You not-so-secretly appreciate the (debatable) quality of the pun. The brain freeze disappears suddenly. You suspect mysterious skeleton magic, but you can’t be sure.

You dig into the fries. The salty flavor tastes good next to the sweetness of the vanilla-flavored milkshake. 

(Vanilla? Chocolate is the only acceptable choice. Sans has no taste. You have no taste.)

Sans continues downing the ketchup. Gross. He doesn’t touch the fries. They’re all for you.

The two of you sit in companionable silence. The grim clouds above begin to part; sunlight streams through. It won't rain today.

When most of the food is gone, you offer Sans the rest of your milkshake. He declines.

“nah kid, it’s yours. take it home and put it in the fridge.”

You thank him for the meal. You’re feeling better. You don’t say that. You don’t need to. He can tell.

He winks.

“anytime.”

Sans’s kindness fills you with determination.

☆ ☆ ☆

We're back in Snowdin. You wouldn't normally return to the Underground, but there was something you wanted to check out you didn't get a chance to, and the path that leads to New Home is safe enough. You SAVE anyway.

You feel like a spy as you “break into” the secret workshop behind Sans and Papyrus’s old house. Sans _gave_ you that key. Dummy.

I’m the real spy here.

...What? You think he might already know about me? Don’t be stupid. He’s not that smart. I don’t care if he has some kind of... fancy scientist badge in one of these drawers. It looks official. You think that selling it on the internet might bring in a lot of cash, as it appears to be made of real gold.

You put the shiny badge back into its proper drawer, as that would be unethical. 

(I thought it was a good idea. Gold isn’t as easy to come by on the surface.)

You rifle through the rest of the drawers, thinking there must be some interesting things inside. Smells like dust—not the dead monster kind.

I really couldn’t care less about their contents. I want to check out that machine.

Or we could not do that. Okay.

You find a crude drawing of three people. I observe that Sans or whoever made this can’t draw worth a—

Who says I can’t swear? Toriel? She doesn’t know I’m here either. The rules established when I was alive are null and void.

You take a closer look at the badly drawn picture. It’s of Sans, Papyrus, and the mystery man from behind the gray door in Waterfall that one time. He was tall. And gooey, even though he was a skeleton. As if he were melting. It made you remember the amalgamates. Your heart hurt.

You scared him and he disappeared. You wanted to come see him again; maybe there was an ACT you could select and become his friend. You looked and looked, but the door never showed up again. You called out, but nobody came.

The drawing says “don’t forget”. Sans definitely drew this.

You keep scrounging around. You find some photos of Sans with people you don’t recognize. Boring.

...

One photo slips from your fingers. It’s Sans and the mystery man.

You’re determined to get to the bottom of this.

Amidst the others, you also discover that Sans has the sappy photo you guys took when you reached the surface.

All of those faces are begging to be marked out. You want to know why I’d do something like that? Because it’d give that comedian a scare the next time he came back here. It would be priceless. _True_ humor. What if I burned it? Along with the bad drawing? And the other photos? Do you think he’d cry?

...

You’re ignoring me.

...

You stare at the picture for a long time.

...

I guess he does look happy. Not like someone who’s given up.

The sappy picture makes you smile. Because it’s you, Frisk, and almost everyone you care about. Someone is still missing.

You tell me two people are missing. You’re wrong.

You very carefully place the photograph back in its drawer. It’s not made of glass. It’s not going to break. Honestly.

You finally head for the machine. To my disappointment, it appears broken. I wonder what it did? Maybe it was a time machine. Do you think Sans and Papyrus are time travelers?

You say it’s kind of sad to see something broken and abandoned like this. You’re too sentimental. It’s not even alive.

You pull the curtain over the machine like a sheet covering a corpse.

 _What?_ What’s wrong with that simile? It’s not gross. It works.

You’ve had enough snooping for today. Is it because of what I said?

There’s an anime premiering on TV today that you don’t want to miss, and we’ll make it back to the surface just in time for it to air? And you made plans with Alphys and Undyne?

You’re all such nerds. Just stream it, anyway. You can do that now.

You leave the workshop with everything put back the way it was found.

...

Maybe it would be better for Sans to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sans paid for their meal.


	4. gasoline

Being an ambassador is harder work than you expected it to be. The humans have a difficult time taking a scrawny little twelve-year-old diplomat seriously. You're not official enough for them. I don’t know why you’re surprised. You know how humans are, don’t you, Frisk? Arrogant. Presumptuous. Condescending. Especially the adults.

But you’re determined. You have faith that humans and monsters can understand each other.

Okay, I admit it. Some humans are more open-minded than others. They’re more willing to accept the existence of the monsters. Perhaps even acknowledge them as equals.

Others? They want them sealed back Underground already. They want them dead.

You still believe that everyone can hold hands and get along, Frisk?

...I guess that’s what I like about you.

Did I say like?

I meant tolerate. Don’t put words in my mouth.

☆ ☆ ☆

You act like the insults never get to you. You’ve got such a stoic face. I know better. I’m the one in your head, aren’t I? Even if you were to shut me out, I’d get some signals. I’d know how you really feel.

You've never tried to shut me out. Are you okay with this set-up we have? You the host and me the parasite? You must want to be alone sometimes.

Or maybe you don’t.

Maybe you don’t ever want to have to be alone again.

☆ ☆ ☆

Papyrus is about to take his driver's test. You and Sans are there to provide moral support. He passed the written exam with flying colors; you figured he would. It’s the actual driving portion you have some reservations about. You know how exuberant he is. You’re afraid of how that’s going to translate onto the road.

And you know he’s completely incompetent.

...You decide to do something besides glare at me.

Yes. You do.

I can’t tell what Sans is thinking. It’s hard when he’s always got that same stupid smile pasted on his face. I think he’s worried for the same reasons you are, but of course he’s talking like he’s got total faith in his airhead brother. 

Letting Papyrus behind the wheel for any reason is a terrible mistake. You’re all bringing doom upon yourselves.

It took some doing for Papyrus to be eligible to take this test in the first place. There are so far no monster-run driving schools established yet, and most humans aren’t keen on handing out driver’s licenses to monsters, let alone physically getting into a car with one. You had to keep calling around to find someone willing to give him lessons. He never lost his enthusiasm no matter the rejection he faced, and neither did you. 

Papyrus gets in the car with the human lady who’ll be judging his performance. She introduced herself, but I don’t remember her name, because who even cares?

—Marigold? You _would_ remember. I don’t think she’s that decent for offering to do this. It’s the bare minimum. You give people more credit than I do.

Papyrus pulls out of the parking space and the test begins. He’s driving carefully on the track, trying not to get himself and Marilyn brutally killed.

Yes, that was on purpose, Frisk.

“yikes. what'd that stop sign ever do to you?"

You're glaring at me again. Low-key glaring. You’re subtle like that. Not subtle enough for this guy.

You tell him you thought of something annoying, that's all.

Oh, thanks a lot. I'll remember this. Mark my words.

Now there's nothing to do but wait until the car's mangled remains are towed over here.

You think that’s a lovely mental image.

Yes you do. I’ve deemed it so.

If you frown like that, he's going to think something's up.

“must be pretty annoying."

“Yeah."

I decide I'm done with you jerks and I'm going to lay low until you see how right I am.

☆ ☆ ☆

Papyrus and Margot have survived the test, to my absolute astonishment. He passed. Hooray. Throw a party.

“OF COURSE, I KNEW I WOULD PASS THIS TEST! IT WAS ONLY A FORMALITY! BECAUSE YOU SEE, THERE IS NO CHANCE THE GREAT PAPYRUS WOULD FAIL.”

“knew you had it in you.”

“Good job, Papyrus.”

“NOW ALL I NEED... IS A SWEET RED CONVERTIBLE! NYEH HEH HEH! NEVER AGAIN WILL YOU BE FORCED TO RELY ON PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION, FRISK!"

“Actually, I walk.”

“...WELL. I CAN STILL DRIVE YOU PLACES TOO! YOU’LL BE THE COOLEST KID ON THE BLOCK IN MY SICK RIDE.”

The second hand embarrassment would kill me if I weren’t already dead. You don’t glare at me for that this time. You give me that blank, “I don’t know what I expected” face. I find that one marginally more acceptable.

“FRISK?”

“It’s nothing, I’m sorry.” You smile. “I can’t wait. Really.”

Sans is watching you.

He’s...

Watching _you_ , right?

I don’t like that comedian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Quietly edits out something kind of contradictory. 
> 
> My allergies are affecting my head. ;__;


	5. i needn't gossip

The mystery man’s existence weighs heavily on your mind. Was he an amalgamate escapee of the True Lab? A relative of Sans and Papyrus? Why is Sans afraid of forgetting him? We have so many headcanons — I mean, theories between the two of us.

Sans is a mystery man himself. He’s different from the others. He was able to figure out what we are when no one else could. He created those stupid, juvenile code words in the event he should ever meet “time travelers”: people with our special power. Anomalies.

 _My_ theory is that Sans himself is a displaced time traveler. We know he’s from somewhere else: that could be the distant future... a golden past he longs to return to...

Another world entirely.

I also don’t think those quantum physics books of his are just a joke, anymore. There's no way.

That’s not even getting into that badge, or the busted machine. (It’s a time machine, I’m calling it.)

You nod along as I voice my thoughts, posed like “The Thinker”. You listen well. You like to, because you’re not always the most talkative person yourself.

You suggest we ask Sans directly what the deal is between him and the mystery man. Are you kidding me? There’s no way he would tell us. He would give us some joke answer or “prank us across time and space” again. (I’m adding that to my list of strange things about Sans.)

...I know he gave us the key to the shed after that, Frisk. I just don’t think we’ll learn anything from asking. Besides, what if he really has forgotten about the mystery man? _Papyrus_ has never indicated he knows that man, now has he?

You hum thoughtfully. Then you say “okay”.

Why don’t we go back to the Underground tomorrow? It’ll be Saturday, we’ll have plenty of free time.

...

It’s a plan.

☆ ☆ ☆

“My child, have you somewhere to be this morning?”

You hope it doesn’t hurt my feelings to hear her address you like that. Don’t make me laugh. I’m not that delicate.

You say yes. You don’t tell Toriel where you’re going, only that you’ll be back in time for supper. She sighs, and wraps you up in a warm hug. You hug her back. You have it on good authority that hugs from fluffy goat moms are the best.

“Stay safe.”

You promise her you will.

Come on, let’s go.

☆ ☆ ☆

Mt. Ebott is a strange place. It holds powerful memories for the both of us. You don’t know if you like it here or not. The scenery is nice, you can say that. The blue sky and chirping birds fill you with determination. You SAVE at the base of the mountain, on the side that leads to New Home. It’s a longer walk than to the hole that leads to Home, but there’s no fall involved. It wouldn’t be a problem if you died accidentally, except you promised Toriel you’d stay safe, and despite the lack of consequences that last, the thought of dying fills you with dread.

The throne room is the same as the way it was left. The inside of Asgore’s home is too, for the most part. He came back at some point to retrieve some mementos like that old sweater. I guess he can’t let go of the past.

...We’ve got a long ways to go, so we talk to each other. I pretend to walk alongside you, hands clasped behind my back. You point out that it’s a beautiful day. I say it’s wasted if we’re spending it Underground. You suggest running all the way to Waterfall so we can make it back faster. You can’t be serious.

"I’m not serious," you say. "I’m Frisk."

I roll my eyes in disgust. You double over in laughter. 

I’ll have to teach you some _good_ jokes one of these days.

☆ ☆ ☆

Hotland is hot.

Although self-evident, it's worth emphasizing. You pull out the canteen you brought with you and pour some water directly onto your face.

“Ahhhh.”

Are you an idiot? That was for drinking. Have fun dying of heat stroke.

You shake your head vigorously afterwards and seem to be refreshed. Whatever works for you, weirdo.

We approach one of the elevators and spot a figure in the distance, warped by the heat-haze. At first, you aren’t sure it’s not a mirage. The closer we get, the clearer it becomes. Someone besides us is in the Underground.

It’s not a monster I have _ever_ seen before. They’re a giant gray face sticking out of the ground. Their mouth is curled into a smile. I don’t want to go near them. You’re not afraid.

Hey, _I’m_ not afraid. I just don’t want to talk to a disembodied face.

The face person doesn’t greet you. They start talking like they were in the middle of a conversation already, about the former Royal Scientist. The one before Alphys.

I realize that I don't know who the Royal Scientist was before she was appointed.

Apparently his name was W.D. Gaster. He was smart, he died, and—

He’s listening?

We look at each other, and then over our shoulders. We look all around. Nobody’s there.

They don’t say anything else.

I make to grab your wrist, forgetting that my hand will go right through you. Certainly not feeling embarrassed, I then walk in the opposite direction of the face and motion for you to follow me. You do so.

When we’re a decent distance away from the face, I ask you what that was all about. You shrug.

“That is not normal,” I say.

“Is there a normal for monsters?”

“Yes, and that is not it.”

“Maybe they’re not good at talking to people....”

“Are you kidding me?”

“...and they’re underground because of the solitude. Like Napstablook.”

“Napstablook isn’t creepy. That was creepy. Who even is W.D. Gaster?”

“I thought you might know.”

“I’ve never heard his name before in my life.”

“Maybe he died before you showed up here.”

I wasn’t sure.

Alphys hadn’t been the Royal Scientist that long, had she? Sure, long enough to ruin a couple people’s lives, but—

What else is creating amalgamates besides ruining lives, Frisk? They’ll never be the same, even if they’re with their families. You think Snowdrake’s mom is the same as she used to be? That pitiful creature falling apart at the seams?

I’m not being mean. It’s the truth.

“Chara,” you say, intending to get back to the point. “The mystery man in that picture from the shed... was wearing a labcoat and a badge.”

“Was he?”

“Yeah. And Sans’s own badge has something to do with being a Royal Scientist.”

“Sans was never the Royal Scientist.”

“...Maybe he worked with one.”

“Wait. Wait. You don’t think that terrified, melty mystery man might actually be...”

You’re already nodding.

“How come this is the first I’ve heard of Gaster?” I ask.

“...You forgot,” you reason, tapping your fingers against your chin. “Like Sans is afraid to.”

Neither of us know what to say to this. In the absence of further speculation, you turn your attention to the gray face person.

“It's hot in here," you say, walking up to them and holding up your canteen. “Do you want some water?"

I don’t expect them to reply.

They do.

“Oh? That would be lovely. Thank you."

I watch in disbelief as you perform the ACT of pouring water into the face person's mouth, which makes up the majority of their body. You can now SPARE them, although they made no attempt to FIGHT you in the first place.

“That's done," you say, putting the lid back on the canteen. You turn to me. “Ready to check Waterfall now?"

At a loss thanks to what I've witnessed, I follow behind you the rest of the way. You wave goodbye to the strange face person as we leave Hotland.

We don't find the gray door. You're alright with that given what we've managed to learn, but you express your concern for the former Royal Scientist(?).

I assume he hears you and appreciates the sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The search for Gaster is going to end up being a subplot, looks like.


	6. imaginary sins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten bucks says I'm going to retroactively edit in chapter titles once I think of good ones.
> 
> There's discussion of intrusive thoughts and Chara's suicide in this chapter.

Sometimes your thoughts take a dark turn; your mind is swarmed with the endless ways you could misuse your special power. You won’t, not ever. You’ve promised yourself not to. The thoughts come regardless.

You know you could hurt people so badly and suffer no consequences for it. 

You could kill someone and undo it, just to see what it’s like. You could kill everyone for the hell of it and they’d never know you did it. You could do it again and again and again. You could be like Flowey.

(Sans might _suspect._ He’d never _know._ Can you imagine the paranoia? The nagging questions that would haunt him as he lay in bed at night? The frustration of never getting closure?)

You could take a knife and slit the tires on the pretty red convertible Papyrus got for his birthday, stand and watch as his bright face crumples before your eyes. You could destroy Undyne’s faith in you by telling her that the humans are right and that monsters are better off dead. You could tell Toriel that you’ve never loved her and she’ll never be your real mother. You could assure Alphys she’s as worthless as she always thought and to go back to the dump where she belongs; it's her element. You could say to Sans that hope is meaningless, there’s no reason to live, just give up.

(You can feel the weight of imaginary sins.)

You could do it and undo it all.

You could be a god.

You don’t want to be a god.

You don’t want to hurt anyone.

You pull your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms tightly around yourself, hunched over in a corner of your dark room. You will yourself not to cry. You’re a terrible friend. You’re a terrible friend. You’re—

...

You’re wrong, Frisk.

☆ ☆ ☆

“Why buttercups?” you ask me.

Your morbid curiosity led you to the internet. It said that buttercup poisoning is a painful way to die.

(You feel as if you have betrayed me in doing this.)

...Why buttercups.

I wanted it to seem like it was mere sickness. A cruel quirk of fate. It would hurt them less that way. 

(Asriel knew the truth. I hurt Asriel.)

In hindsight, I should have gone with a method that would have been over more quickly. Calling it “painful” is the understatement of the century, Frisk. It was slow, torturous agony. My innards rebelled violently against me. I thought I was being torn apart from the inside out. I remember lying in my deathbed, my face damp with sweat, my vision fuzzy. Voices fading in and out. I couldn’t tell how much time was passing; it felt like an eternity in hell.

Whenever we sleep, I hear Asgore begging me to wake up. 

You hear him too. 

We share memories.

I can see parts of your past like you can see mine.

...

I don’t blame you, Frisk.

I did the same.

☆ ☆ ☆

You developed the gross habit of hanging onto and reusing old bandages a long time ago. “It saves resources” is what you tell yourself. Deep down, you know that’s a lie.

You scraped your arm a month ago and scraped your knee on the way up Mt. Ebott last week. You took the old bandage and wrapped it around the new wound, deciding that was satisfactory. Things aren’t like they used to be, Frisk.

Papyrus is sharper than he appears to be. When you greet him today, his eyes lock onto your bandaged knee and the next thing you know he’s marching over with an expression of dismay written across his bony face. It appears that the comedian is not the only one with an eye for detail.

“FRISK! TELL ME IT ISN’T SO!”

“It’s not so?” you tell him.

“OH, GOOD.”

...Nevermind, Papyrus remains an idiot.

“I THOUGHT,” he continues, “THAT WAS THE SAME BANDAGE FROM YOUR ARM.”

“What makes you think that?”

“THE BLOODSTAINS ARE THE EXACT SAME PATTERN! SORT OF LIKE A CAT.”

You glance down. The stain is cat-shaped.

...Papyrus _is_ actually sharper than he appears to be?

“BUT IT APPEARS I AM... MISTAKEN! NYEH...! THIS RARELY EVER HAPPENS.”

I throw my hands up in the air. I don’t know how to judge Papyrus. He's an enigma. 

You feel a twinge of guilt at Papyrus’s concern for your health. You want to tell him the truth. You're so honest, Frisk.

“No, Papyrus, you were right.”

He presses his hands to his face in cartoonish shock. “FRISK! WHY?”

“Force of habit,” you say.

“THAT IS A BAD HABIT! COME WITH ME, FRISK, I MUST CHANGE YOUR UNSANITARY BANDAGE IMMEDIATELY, AS WELL AS DISINFECT YOUR GRIEVOUS INJURY AND THEN PROCEED TO PROVIDE YOU WITH A COMFORTING STUFFED ANIMAL.”

You don’t understand why that last one’s necessary. Papyrus appears to notice your confusion. He explains.

“MUCH LIKE BEDTIME STORIES, STUFFED ANIMALS SOOTHE THE SOUL AND HELP GET US THROUGH DIFFICULT TIMES.”

As in week-old scraped knees. (Papyrus is a riot when he’s not unbearably irritating. You agree with half of that sentence.)

Papyrus’s demeanor shifts out of the blue, as if he is struck by a troubling thought.

“...HAVE YOU NEVER HAD A STUFFED ANIMAL TO CUDDLE WITH?”

You shake your head. You were never big on toys.

His distress intensifies.

“WE MUST MAKE UP FOR LOST TIME! QUICKLY, FRISK!!”

Papyrus swoops in to scoop you up into his arms in an unprecedented and — surprisingly gentle gesture. He darts off in the general direction of his and Sans’s home. You have no idea what is happening anymore, but you roll with it.

You find that it's comfy to be held. He's warm.


	7. guesswork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to save the events of this chapter for a later date, but decided I couldn't resist.

You want to know if I miss having a body of my own.

I have to take some time to consider this question before I can answer. 

Was it so great to have a body? The answer to that is closely tied up into whether or not it was so great to be _alive_. Bodies are feeble. Imperfect. Unideal. They feel pain. My last living moments as myself — well. I told you about them already; I don’t miss pain. And outside of the Underground, life was a joke. A miserable existence.

As I am now, I can only feel the vaguest sensations of whatever stimuli you’re in contact with. Everything is dulled. Grayscale. The little I’m able to sense isn’t enough to make me long for a body again. Besides, I can walk through _walls_ now.

Hearing that, you ask me this: If I had one more day to live, how would I spend it?

With you, Frisk, obviously.

...What? Was that the wrong answer? Are questions like that supposed to have wrong answers?

Fine. 

I’d get some mileage out of my working tastebuds and eat chocolate, I guess. 

(I do miss chocolate.)

You worry the hem of your striped shirt and tell me you have a proposition.

...

That’s an interesting proposition.

☆ ☆ ☆

We’re in the kitchen. The fridge is several away. The first thing I do while in possession of your body is collapse onto the laminate flooring. First-hand pain is even more painful than I remember it being.

You rub your head and apologize.

“I didn’t think you’d have to re-learn how to operate a body,” you explain. An astral projection of your own body is kneeling next to mine, concern written plainly on your face. Your red SOUL glows from inside your chest. Reminds me of a warm fire crackling away in a fireplace.

“Neither did I,” I mutter. I drag myself to my hands and knees and grab for the seat of the chair next to me. It’s velvety. These sensations are vivid enough to almost hurt. It fascinates me. I take a second to soak in the texture.

As I begin to rise, you do the same, making the pointless motion of holding out your hands to catch me if I fall again. Unlike me, you’re totally unaccustomed to being intangible. You can’t do anything to help, Frisk.

(But for all I know, you and your determination will find a way to overcome intangibility.)

I cling onto the back of the chair once I’m upright. I wobble like a training dummy somebody hit too hard.

“Take it slow,” you say.

“Shut up.”

The wooden chair is smooth beneath my fingers. Your fingers. I haven’t touched anything in so long. These sensations are foreign to me. I run my hand over the back of the chair once or twice. You crack a smile. You wanted me to enjoy the senses I’d been deprived of.

“Chara?”

“It’s Chaira, now,” I say very seriously.

You clasp a hand over your mouth to muffle your ensuing laughter like someone’s going to hear you. “I thought you didn’t like reused jokes?” you ask.

“It’s not the same as Chairiel. It’s a nuanced variation.” Obviously.

“A chairiation?”

Oh, please.

“That’s Sans-tier, Frisk.”

“There’s no difference.”

As a seasoned joke connoisseur, I’m capable of telling good jokes from bad ones, thanks. You inform me that’s something Sans himself would say. I tell you to be quiet.

I slide my hands from the chair directly onto to the kitchen table, trying to maintain my tenuous balance. (The table is made of a wood that’s scratchier than the chair. I like it less.) The fridge and the chocolate bar it holds inside taunt my very existence. So close, yet so far.

Frisk, if I threw myself at the fridge, what do you think would happen?

Your cross your arms in an X shape and shake your head. Fine.

These legs are unwieldy. They should be strong, yet they’re trembling like they’re about to give up on me. I want to _make_ them work.

I have determination.

I’m going to approach the fridge by getting as close as I can while bracing myself against the table. When I run out of table, I’m going to grab the nearest chair and drag it with me to keep myself upright. Although you’re feeling dubious about this, you offer words of encouragement. (You know _dis_ couraging me is not going to happen.)

“Do your best.”

As if I would do anything less.

You’re right there at my side as I take a wobbly step forward. Then I slide my other leg over. I take another step, adjusting the position of my hands. I slide my other leg over again. I take another step. My arms tremble. I lose my balance and the floor comes rushing to meet my head, I can hear you say my name—

I’m jerked back by a strange force before I make impact, my body is standing upright, there’s blue light all around me—

Oh shit.

“don’t tell me the talk about underage drinking went in one ear and out the other, kid.”

Sans is in the kitchen doorway. He wasn't home. He’s smiling like always. Stupid.

I say nothing.

Frisk, what do we do?

You think about LOADING.

You choose not to.

Okay, then what do we _do?_

You need a minute to think. Great. Fantastic.

Sans is watching me.

No... 

He’s studying me.

“but then,” he continues, “i dunno if _you_ heard it too.”

I freeze up. You jerk your head in surprise.

....Oh, Sans. 

Sans.

Sans.

_Sans._

A wicked grin splits across my face. You are now feeling dubious about allowing me to possess you. Don’t worry, Frisk, this is going to be fun.

“...Ever so clever, comedian,” I say, taking a lurching step forward. The blue magic keeps me oriented, allowing me to maintain some semblance of balance.

“sure am,” he replies. “i take it you’re frisk’s pal?”

“The spirit bound to their SOUL.”

I stumble towards him.

He holds out a bony hand. Smiling.

“nice to meet you. the name’s sans.” 

...

Wait, what? That’s not the reaction I thought I was going to get. Nothing in his voice betrays any unease.

(You don't understand why I so badly want to see Sans squirm.)

“I know who you are, fool,” I say in the most intimidating voice this body will produce.

“figured as much. but i thought we should get started off on the right foot.”

“I’m not shaking your hand. You've got a whoopee cushion up your sleeve or something.”

Sans withdraws his hand and places it in his hoodie. He goes quiet. Is he thinking again? I don’t like that. I hate not knowing what’s going on in that head of his. I want him to spill it, everything. I want to _make_ him.

“Why are you being so casual about this?” I demand.

“it’s like i guessed, right? i’m pretty sure you’re frisk’s pal, the one they’re always talking to and staring at when nothing’s there.”

You rub the back of your head. You thought you were more subtle than that.

He shrugs. “they seem pretty happy, and pals don’t force pals out of their own bodies...”

His eyes go solid black.

“A m I w r o n g?”

Had I more control over this body, I could have suppressed the shudder that runs through me. You place your phantom hand on my shoulder. Your other hand is held over your chest. Over your SOUL.

“You happened to guess correctly, comedian,” I say, fighting my — your — vocal cords. “Frisk allowed me to possess them temporarily.” I glance at you, “standing” beside me.

His irises return to normal. (Keep it that way.) He follows my line of sight, however brief it was.

You sigh in relief, the hand over your heart dropping back to your side. You love Sans, but he knows how to put the fear of god in somebody.

“so frisk is right...” He gestures in your direction. “here?”

“Yes.” These observant skeletons...

“neat.”

He mimes prodding your forehead with alarming accuracy. You feel nothing, but you’re impressed, your mouth making an “o”.

“i guess right again?” he asks me. His eyes are locked onto me. Gauging my expression. Probably measuring the width of my pupils or something bizarre like that. I don't know how he works.

“Yes,” I grind out.

He grins somehow wider and I’m overcome with the urge to wipe it off of his face.

“that face... hmm. calm down there, buckaroo. i don’t think you’re in a condition to be picking a fight.”

I hate this skeleton.

“anyway...” He taps one fuzzy pink slipper against the floor.

(I don’t know how he manages to conduct himself so casually. You chalk it up to his nature. Is it really, Frisk? Or is it something else?)

“what’s your name, not-frisk? if you’re going to be hanging around with frisk for the long haul, i’ll need something to call you. unless you like not-frisk. or buckaroo.”

No, I don’t like either.

“I’m—”

I stop myself short. I can’t say. He’ll know. I want to keep _this_ secret between us.

“i’m? that’s not a very good name.”

Stop laughing, Frisk.

“My name is none of your business, imbecile.”

“ouch. okay. how about i call you ksirf.”

I’m speechless.

“it’s frisk backwards,” he clarifies.

_Stop laughing, Frisk._

“they like it, huh.”

“They think it sucks and that you suck too.”

He winks. I hate that too. “i totally believe you.”

I can’t bear this skeleton any longer and I’m tired of being propped upright with his magic like a sad marionette. Take your body back, Frisk. I don't even want the chocolate bar anymore.

“swapping places now?”

How does he _do_ that? I refuse to respond. My spirit is yanked from your body, and the ensuing empty space is filled by the entirety of your SOUL. I’m back to the familiarity of intangibility.

Sans has the blue magic dissipate slowly so that you have time to gather your bearings. You sway a little like you’re woozy. He makes sure you don’t fall.

“Thanks for being nice to them,” you say when you’ve got your balance back. 

Nice? I don't want to meet mean Sans.

“that ksirf... they’re a real character.”

A chill goes up my spine. 

It’s not a pun. Of course it’s not. He’s not omniscient.

You send a comforting vibe over our connection.

“They’re not so bad,” you say, clasping the heart-shaped locket hanging around your neck.

...

I’m not going to thank you for that.

“oh hey. ksirf is still there, right?”

Shouldn’t you have confirmed that before talking about me? The creepy gray face was right: _it’s rude to talk about someone who's listening._

You nod.

The unfunny comedian clears his throat.

“so ksirf, since you were wondering...." He produces a godforsaken bottle of ketchup from his probably-disgusting hoodie. "it gets turned into pure energy. that's why ya don't see it dripping all over the place when i drink it.”

E... excuse me?

“i can’t believe you didn’t know that already. i mean it’s pretty basic knowledge.”

...

Give me your body back, Frisk. I need to make a skeleton beg for MERCY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody's undoubtedly come up with "Ksirf" already, but again, I couldn't resist.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everybody!


	8. magnum opus

One day, when you’re sitting in the kitchen watching Toriel clean the stove with fire magic, you’re hit by a spark of inspiration. You go grab a sheet of paper and a pencil and you start drawing like a kid possessed. Your "masterpiece" comes out a little clumsy. The lines are shaky and it’s off model because you never drawn before, but you show Toriel and she’s so happy she puts it on the fridge immediately and then gives you a hug, telling you what a wonderful child you are. You beam at her.

I mean, it was an _okay_ picture.

The next day, Papyrus and Sans come to visit, and when they see your picture on display, Toriel tells them all about it. Papyrus asks you at an ear-shattering volume if you'd please, pleeeaseee draw him and maybe even Sans too? You give him a thumbs up and fetch another piece of drawing paper.

Papyrus makes theatrical poses. Sans is too lazy for that. He stands around like he would normally, still in those fuzzy slippers. You expected nothing less from either of them. You try to draw what you think is a cool, dramatic Papyrus and do your best to make Sans at least a little bit cooler than he usually is. I suggest you take some artistic liberties, so you end up giving Papyrus a swishing cape instead of a scarf and adding a fur lining to Sans’s hoodie. You draw a border of bones around the picture of the two brothers.

Papyrus says he’s going to frame it. When they’re about to leave, Sans pulls you aside and thanks you for showing how cool his brother is. You just smile.

You get a phone call several days later from Undyne and Alphys. Mostly Undyne. They're almost done moving into their new home (“A REAL home," Undyne emphasizes, not like the cheap apartment they’d been staying in) and they want you to come and visit — and draw them, by the way, because Papyrus said you were doing that now.

“I-if you want to,” Alphys adds.

When you ring their doorbell, Undyne kicks open the door and picks you up by the back of your shirt, grinning a toothy smile.

“Come on in, nerd! Make yourself comfortable!”

You see from your new vantage point that Undyne has gotten herself another piano after the old one was lost in the Great Cooking-Induced Fire of 201X. She plants you on the couch and asks if you’d like a drink or a snack.

You ask for tea, and from over the back of the couch you watch the tea-brewing process carefully in case something starts to burn again and she needs your help. You wonder if you should have brought a fire extinguisher with you.

Alphys walks into the living room wearing a wide-brimmed yellow hat and a blue sundress. You've never seen this outfit before.

“U-undyne bought these for me. Aren’t they pretty?” she asks, her whole face glowing.

You say that they are. She thanks you. Alphys seems more confident these days.

“Tea’s done,” Undyne says, and it appears nothing is on fire. She made a cup for herself and Alphys too. You watch as Undyne gulps down the scalding hot drink without flinching and are quietly impressed. Alphys is too.

“I’m g-gonna wait until mine cools off,” Alphys says, setting her tea on the coffee table in front of her. You agree, doing the same. Which kind of makes it a tea table instead.

“Don’t be wusses, you two,” Undyne says. “Anyway, Frisk. Papyrus told me you’re a modern da Vinci, or something?”

You wonder if Undyne knows who Leonardo da Vinci is. Or if Papyrus does, for that matter.

“I’m learning to draw,” you say, nodding.

“Awesome. ‘Cause you’re totally gonna have to draw me and my girlfriend now!!” She cackles.

“Do you have art supplies?” you ask.

“Pshaw. What a question. Do we have art supplies? _Do we have art supplies?_ ”

Undyne pauses. 

She turns to Alphys.

“Babe, we have art supplies, right?”

Alphys smiles and turns around to point at a cabinet. “Some p-paper and colored pencils in there.”

“We have art supplies,” Undyne tells you.

You cover your mouth with both hands and laugh.

☆ ☆ ☆

“S-so should we pose?”

“Hell yeah I’m gonna pose.”

You tell the both of them you had something else in mind.

“Oh? Let’s hear it,” Undyne says, as if issuing a challenge.

You motion them over to the piano and gesture for them to sit down on the chair, wide enough for two people. You then ask Undyne to start playing something. Anything that comes to mind.

It doesn’t seem to be the scene Undyne expected you’d want to draw (lifting weights or throwing spears?), but she doesn’t seem opposed to this, nor does Alphys. In fact, Alphys is probably relieved she doesn’t have to do any ridiculous poses.

Undyne cracks her knuckles.

“...I got it. It’s this one, Alphys.”

Undyne puts her fingers to the keys and the beginnings of a deceptively simple tune fill the air. 

“This one?” Alphys squeaks.

Undyne grins.

You head to the coffee table, kneel down with your paper and art supplies (they have them!) and begin to try to capture both the image in front of you and the atmosphere of the song. The unassuming melody slowly but surely turns into something passionate. There’s so much emotion in Undyne’s playing you’re afraid she’s going to break the piano keys.

You put your heart into the picture. You pay attention to the details, you let the music flow through you, and you don't stop until you have a full-color illustration of Alphys and Undyne at the piano, side by side with a pink heart framing them. Despite the rough nature of the drawing, you've managed to capture their warm feelings. You tell them it's done, and Alphys and Undyne both crowd around you to get a look. You hand it off to them.

“It’s b-beautiful, Frisk. Am I really that pretty?”

“Duh,” Undyne says, and pecks Alphys on the lips. Alphys goes beet red.

You decide not to tell Toriel you saw anybody kissing today.

“Good work, Frisk!” Undyne continues, admiring the picture. “We’re gonna keep it.”

“Please do,” you say. “I’m glad you both like it.”

“Here, I’ll put it somewhere s-safe."

As Alphys heads out of the room, it hits you that there's something you want to know.

“That song, Undyne.”

“What about it?”

“Is it special to Alphys?” 

Unexpectedly, Undyne blushes.

“I wrote it for her,” she says.

You feel as if you knew that before she even told you.

You spend the rest of the afternoon in the cozy home they've made together.


	9. maximum edge

Now that you’ve forged a close network of friends, you’ve taken a shine to social media.

At Papyrus and Alphys’s prompting you made yourself an UnderJournal blog, a website that originated in the Underground and has now gained popularity with humans and monsters alike. You use it to occasionally record the happenings in your life and lately as a platform to display the pictures you’ve been drawing. You're crossing your fingers for constructive criticism. Mostly you comment on other people’s posts.

You like that you can take all the time you want to collect your thoughts before your share them, and by now, everybody knows it might take you a couple of hours to reply to them.

Sans is another one slow to reply — or post anything at all. He approaches social media as one would expect him to. He rarely ever updates, and when he does, it’s about the most inane things possible. You suspect that’s on purpose. Nobody really wants to hear about a moldy sock he found under his bed, Papyrus least of all, and that’s why he chooses to make that his signature content.

Asgore posts the second-least. You think he’s a little afraid of breaking into your circle of friends as long as Toriel’s a part of it. The tension between them has simmered down enough that they can work on the same premises and seem happy with the arrangement, but you know there’s some lingering issues there that haven’t been resolved. You kindly reach out to Asgore every once in a while to ask him how things are going, and offer links to new kinds of tea he might not have heard of, or sales on gardening equipment. He responds in kind with photos of pretty flowers and lush hedges he’s trimmed into various shapes. One looks like Papyrus’s head. You said it perfectly captures Papyrus’s spirit, and he sent you a smiley face back for the first time.

You think Asgore will be okay.

Papyrus has taken to posting selfies with ugly filters pasted over them and pictures of spaghetti with uglier filters pasted over them.

“THAT’S MY AESTHETIC,” he had told you in all caps when you questioned it, replying twelve seconds after you'd clicked the post comment button.

He seemed so proud. I couldn’t stop laughing.

Alphys liveblogs anime, and has gotten to you into several different series this way. The other week she was marathon-watching some heartwarming tear-jerker about a bullied human boy who could see monsters other humans couldn't. Some monsters wanted to eat him and take away something important he possessed while others he befriended. No matter what, he was determined to help them all.

You put that one on your to-watch list.

Like Papyrus, Undyne likes to post pictures of herself. Having actual muscle mass, they’re usually pictures of her rippling abs taken by Alphys. Sometimes they're pictures of her throwing spears at things and nearly demolishing her own property instead. There’s a few on her page that she took together with Monster Kid. (They were over the moon.) Undyne also has a habit of getting into arguments with people; her opinions are so strong _they_ could bench press seven children.

Personally, you try and stay out of online conflict. You’re always taking the role of the pacifist or mediator.

You wouldn’t be you if you did otherwise.

Mettaton has a massive online presence. The surface world is eating up his monster idol shtick because he’s the first of his kind. He’s gotten himself his own web domain. It’s absolutely gaudy and there’s autoplay on the front pace. Disgusting.

You found him commenting on one of Alphys’s posts the other day. He didn’t sound as showy as usual. He wasn’t even using capslock the way he normally does. (What is with loud people using capslock online?)

You hope they’re getting along okay.

Toriel posts mom things. That’s the best way you can describe it. Inspirational quotes, funny animal videos, ancient and fossilized memes, recipes... posts about you. Many posts about you. It embarrasses you a little, but you never ask her to knock it off.

She really loves you.

...

I’m fine, Frisk.

I’m the only one of us without an online presence.

...

You ask me if I want an UnderJournal.

Sure.

In fact, I already know what I’m going to use it for.

My thoughts reach you, you sigh, and you pull up the account creation page as I hover more or less literally over your shoulder.

 

 

 

☆ ☆ ☆

Deathtermination666999.

My username.

—I don’t want to hear anything from you, “Pacifrisk”! This captures the essence of the SOUL I no longer have.

Taking control of your body, I start typing in the account information, though I struggle to some degree. You’ve let me practice taking over your body (when we are 100% sure Sans has no reason to be around) and have been improving, but I lack the dexterity you possesses. I stumble when we reach the “name” section, but settle on typing “it’s me”.

You quirk an eyebrow.

“No alias?”

“Deathtermination is good enough for anyone who wants needs a handle to call me by.”

You appear at a loss. What’s wrong with that name? Can’t handle it?

I make up an email address on the fly after you show me how (deathterminationdestroy666999 [at] under.net), come up with a password that I don’t care if you know because you’d never break into my account, and input a fake birth date. The account is successfully created.

I reach the journal customization page. I want to tweak it to fit my exact preferences. I’m unsure of how to do this; you’re willing to go ahead and do it for me. Excellent. We swap places. Fifteen minutes later it’s complete. The primary colors are red and black and there are song lyrics posted in the header. You are judging my taste in music harder than you’ve ever judged anything in your life. How dare you.

“What do you want to do now?”

“I want to send a message.”

“...Sans, right?”

You know me too well. You type in Sans’s URL.

“Promise you won’t threaten him with anything, okay?” you ask, swiveling the chair to face me.

“Why ever would you think I’d do that?”

You fold your arms, giving me the “really, Chara?” stare.

I roll my eyes. “I promise, now swap with me.”

You hand control over to me. I initiate a chat with Sans and I wait.

 

 

 

☆ ☆ ☆

I end up waiting a while. Where the hell is he? Loafing off as usual?

In the meantime, I pull up that anime Alphys was talking about and we watch it for a while.

It makes you cry as early as the second episode. I didn’t cry at all.

...I said I didn't cry!

 

 

 

☆ ☆ ☆

Your body is only sniffling because your astral projection is. I’m telling you that’s how it works.

Our discussion is interrupted by the ping of a new message. I pull up the chat window to see that “sanstskeleton” has replied to me. His name is both unoriginal and lazy. He couldn’t be bothered to fully write out “the”.

 **sanstskeleton:** hi ksirf

What.

 ** **Deathtermination666999:**** Who?

He could not possibly know.

 **sanstskeleton:** seeing as nobody else calls me “comedian”  
**sanstskeleton:** it kind of has to be you

...Don’t say “I told you so”, Frisk.

 **sanstskeleton:** nice header  
**sanstskeleton:** i like that song too  
**sanstskeleton:** really captures the essence of my existential angst

  
**Deathtermination666999:** Screw you. You’re not intelligent enough to grasp the deep meaning behind their lyrics.

  
**sanstskeleton:** language. and hey, i just said they speak to my very soul

  
**Deathtermination666999:** Anyone could see that you’re mocking my taste. Which is something, by the way, that you don’t have.

  
**sanstskeleton:** rude  
**sanstskeleton:** anyway what’s up besides your hackles, ksirf

  
**Deathtermination666999:** That is not my name.

  
**sanstskeleton:** oh yeah sorry. deathtermination6669999, what’s up

  
**Deathtermination666999:** Pay attention to what you type. That’s one too many nines.

  
**sanstskeleton:** ok, deathtermination6666999

  
**Deathtermination666999:** I’m going to kill you.

  
**sanstskeleton:** that escalated quickly

You shoot me a disapproving look because I said I wouldn’t threaten Sans.

I’m not going to apologize.

I refuse.

...

...

...

You can’t make me.

Stop looking at me like that.

 **sanstskeleton:** threatening someone and then disappearing  
**sanstskeleton:** is either completely anticlimactic  
**sanstskeleton:** or a sign you’re on your way to my house with a knife in tow

  
**Deathtermination666999:** Would that I could. This body won’t cooperate long enough for that to happen.

“Chara.”

“I’ll get around to saying sorry, okay?”

 **sanstskeleton:** you mean frisk wouldn’t let it  
**sanstskeleton:** heheh i bet they told ya to cut it out

  
**Deathtermination666999:** Was that a pun?

  
**sanstskeleton:** it may or may not have been something construable as a pun  
**sanstskeleton:** wink

 

“Chara.”

“Ugh.”

I hit the keys with more force than is required.

 **Deathtermination666999:** Frisk is demanding I apologize, so I’m sorry.

  
**sanstskeleton:** hey it’s no skin off my back  
**sanstskeleton:** i’m not gonna judge ya for being a homicidal maniac

  
**Deathtermination666999:** I LOVE how understanding you are.

  
**sanstskeleton:** nice one, you’re learning from the best

“Why doesn’t anything faze him,” I ask you, somewhat despairing.

“Because he’s Sans,” you say simply.

I think. And I think. What could get a genuine reaction out of him? What could possibly...?

...

 **Deathtermination666999:** I have a question.

  
**sanstskeleton:** ok

  
**Deathtermination666999:** Who is W.D. Gaster to you?

You frown uncertainly.

Sans’s reply this time takes longer than the others.

 **sanstskeleton:** kid  
**sanstskeleton:** i’m gonna have to get back to you on that  
**sanstskeleton has signed off.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The anime they were watching exists and it's called Natsume Yuujinchou. It's amazing.


	10. apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has forced me to get my headcanons for all the Gaster shit in order to avoid contradicting myself and hahaha wow that's harder than it sounds.
> 
> But maybe that's because I was writing this at 3 in the morning.

“sorry,” is the first thing Sans says to you when you run to him in the school parking lot, stopping just short of ramming yourself into his rib cage. “didn’t wanna talk about it over underjournal.”

“I understand,” you say.

I don’t. I think he’s making an excuse to cover for what must have been his extremely startled reaction to me namedropping a man nobody remembers existed.

“Can we talk about it now?” you ask.

“nah, i gotta get you home, your mom’s waiting for you.” He points to the back of the school building. “c’mere, i know a shortcut.”

You’re disappointed, but you follow him into the shadow of the building. The next thing I know, there's a flash of darkness and we’re walking out from behind your house. Teleportation powers. It’s as if the universe is choosing to enable his lazy nature by granting him a method of transportation that minimizes walking distance to the maximum degree.

You think I sounded like Papyrus just now. Absurd.

“there ya go,” he says, gesturing to the front door. Then he scratches the back of his skull. “heh. don’t need a car when you can do that.”

“When can we talk about it?” you press, your eyes boring into his. You’re so determined to learn more about the enigmatic Dr. Gaster you can see a twinkling SAVE point hovering nearby.

“how’s saturday sound?”

That’s three days from now. You’re prepared to wait. I’m not.

“Ksirf is impatient.”

“ok, how’s sunday sound?”

That’s farther away than Saturday.

“That’s farther away than Saturday.”

“the saturday after next sunday?”

Frisk! Make him see reason!

“This Saturday’s good,” you say, conceding defeat like a loser.

“great. do your homework and say hi to ksirf for me.”

“You can say hi to them right now, actually.”

“that’s ok, i’ll let you do it for me.”

Incredible. Truly incredible. Is there any other being on this wretched planet quite like Sans the skeleton?

“be seein’ ya.” Sans proceeds to leave through the same shortcut he entered through.

You head to your room to get your homework out of the way.

You are a very boring person sometimes.

☆ ☆ ☆

When Saturday comes, you can’t wait. Your schedule is clear and Sans told you he’ll be free at 4:30 to chat. 4:30 comes and goes. You have come to not expect punctuality from Sans. You sit by the window, your chin in your hands. Frisk, this is pitiful.  
  
You hear the doorbell ring at some point after 5 P.M., but nobody walked up the driveway.

“sorry,” says Sans when you greet him at the door. “papyrus had car trouble.”

“What happened?”

“some annoying dog bit a hole in one of his tires.”

Ah, yes. We are certain we know which dog he means. _The_ Annoying Dog, the bane of Papyrus’s existence. I have deemed it his arch-rival. A worthy opponent for someone of his low caliber.

You nod to Sans understandingly, ignoring my inner monologue.

“we’re going to my workshop in snowdin,” he says, much to your astonishment. He winks. “you two’ve been, right?’

“How did you know?”

“well i didn’t give you those keys for no reason.”

I told you so, “spy”.

“there’s a shortcut over here. follow me.”

☆ ☆ ☆

Sans uses a spare key to get into the workshop and invites you in. Everything is the same as it was the last time you checked it, yet you get the nagging sense Sans has been here in the interim.

“first of all, i gotta know something,” he says, putting the key back into his hoodie filled with endless unsanitary things. “how’d you figure out gaster’s name?”

“A gray face in hotland told us.”

“sounds plausible.”

For the life of you, you cannot tell if that reply is sarcastic or not.

“they say anything else?”

“He was the former Royal Scientist. He was very smart, but he fell into one of his experiments and passed away.”

No, Frisk. He _died._

And if that happened, he wasn’t so smart, now was he?

“matches up with what i know,” Sans says after a few seconds pass by.

“What _do_ you know?”

Sans gestures to a stool nearby the broken machine.

“sit down, make yourself comfy.”

You do.

“thing about gaster is nobody remembers him,” he says, turning from you to open up the drawer closest to the door. He pulls out the crummy drawing of himself, Papyrus, and Gaster. “not even papyrus.”

_Who is W.D. Gaster to you?_

“Was he related to you two?”

“the evidence points to him being our dad.”

The... evidence?

“i’ve got some memories of us doing family stuff, but they’re, uh, getting blurry as the days go by.”

You feel cold.

“I’m so sorry, Sans.”

“don’t be,” he says, glancing at you over his shoulder. “what i know is that i became his lab assistant at some point — heh, guess i was that kid who wanted to be just like his old man when he grew up — but then the accident happened and bam, he's gone.”

He continues rummaging through drawers.

“almost everybody closely connected to him disappeared in a kind of ripple effect, sans people like me and papyrus...”

You can’t bring yourself to laugh.

“...and that gray face person in hotland, looks like.”

He passes you a photo. In the background is a — _the_ face person. They’re not gray.

Also in the background is Gaster himself.

He's not all melty in the photos you've seen. He's not scared. He looks happy.

_The accident._

What ensued during that accident to turn the Royal Scientist into a man falling apart at the seams? To erase him from memory?

...

“Sans, I have to tell you something."

You don’t know if you should say it.

...

Say it, Frisk.  
  
Sans is listening. You swallow hard.

“We were in Waterfall a while ago, and there was this door on a wall that was never there before.”

“uhuh.”

“I opened it up and I saw... someone. A skeleton man who was kind of gooey-looking."

"uhuh."

"I scared him away. The door vanished, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“uhuh.”

“I don’t know what it means,” you finish.

You don’t know what the expression on Sans’s face means. He’s inscrutable.

“...it means,” he says (and you gather no hints from his tone of voice), “if that gooey skeleton man's who i think he is, gaster’s still around somehow.”

“But he left.” You feel guilty. “I scared him.”

“if he can survive falling into his experiment, he can survive meeting a twelve year old.”

You try and laugh at that. Your voice is weak.

“don’t get all bummed out over this," he tells you. "look at me," he points at himself, grinning. "i’m fine 'n dandy.”

Are you really, Sans?

“Can I ask you something else?”

“shoot.”

“Do you remember anything about what was he like when he was alive?”

Sans thumbs over the drawing in his hand. Smells like crayons.

“smart. real smart. curious. always wanted to try new things. got himself into trouble more than once that way.”

“Was he kind?”

“yeah.”

You rarely hear such fondness in his tone.

“gaster wasn’t timid,” Sans continues. “and he wasn’t afraid of humans. so, heh. wherever he usually is, seein’ new faces must be enough to throw him for a loop for some reason.”

You’re afraid of the implications that statement holds.

Meanwhile, I’m focusing on a certain word.

_Wherever._

Frisk. Let me take control. There’s something I want to ask him for myself.

You hesitate, and then you hand over the metaphorical steering wheel.

Sans notices before my spirit even settles in your body. I’m held upright by blue magic.

“Put me down,” I snap. “I can stand now.”

“just making sure.” The blue magic dissipates. I wobble, but keep my balance. Success.

“Where are you from, Sans?” I ask. (Demand.)

“snowdin,” he says.

“No you’re not. The shop lady at Snowdin said you and your brother showed up one day out of nowhere and asserted yourselves, whatever that means.”

Sans is focusing on the wall behind me.

“And you more or less told Frisk all the way back in the hotel restaurant that one time that you miss home.”

“you’ve got a good memory.”

Don’t try and change the subject.

“Where _is_ home, comedian?”

He holds up his hands in surrender.

“ok, you got me.”

I wait for an explanation and none comes. I see I’m going to have to prompt him. I advance.

“Elaborate already. Or need I make you?”

“yeesh, ksirf. turn down that ‘tude.” He adjusts his jacket. I can hear keys jingling against what is most likely a bottle of ketchup. Then he stops.

I wait. I narrow my eyes. His smile turns sheepish.

“truth is, me and papyrus... are from somewhere else.”

“So I gathered.”

“that, uh. would be a separate timeline from this, as far as i know. we got displaced.”

**_I knew it._ **

“...you’ve got this real weird grin on your face, kid.”

“My headc— theory was correct. That’s all.”

“wow. were you placing bets about my origins too?”

“No, but I should have.”

Damn it. What a good idea. Also not the point, you remind me.

Your internal voice is at such a low volume it’s hard to hear.

“How did you get displaced?”

“the accident,” Sans says, eyes drifting towards the wall again. His grin does not falter.

“What happened?”

He gives a wide shrug.

Casual, so casual.

“kind of a blur. i mostly remember the aftermath. boy, people give you funny looks when you talk about people they don’t think are real.”

I get the sense he is purposely obfuscating the details. Perhaps he doesn't want to relive it. Perhaps he doesn't want to disturb you with the truth.

You, Frisk, would wonder if people (besides presumably Sans) ever gave you strange stares for talking to me... if this conversation hadn’t opened up a certain hollowness in your chest.

What a dreary feeling you’re emanating.

“...Frisk says they’re sorry.”

You’re sorry about a lot of things you have no control over. You believe that someone with your special power should do everything they can to amend all that’s broken.

You are wise enough to know there are some things you cannot change.

You are sorry.

“tell ‘em not to be.” Sans’s irises are flickering back and forth in his sockets. You think he’s wondering where you are.

I tell you not to be.

You hear it and you don’t.

“Frisk is ready to take their body back.”

You have said nothing of the sort. I surrender my control over your body. Sans puts his hand on your shoulder once the exchange occurs. Ostensibly it’s in case you lose your balance. In reality I think it’s because he knows your mood has dipped.

“welp. i’ve had enough reminiscing for today.”

He lifts his hand from your shoulder and ruffles your hair. You tilt your head like a confused puppy.

He pulls back his hand to cover his mouth as he yawns, putting on a show of tiredness.

I should have known he’d try to downplay the gesture. I’ve got your number, comedian.

“wanna go home, frisk?”

“I... want to ask you one more thing.”

“yeah?”

You point to the picture he hasn't let go of this whole time.

“Can I try drawing the three of you, too?”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

And then he chuckles. It’s a soft, gentle sound. You wish you could hear it more often.

“knock yourself out, kiddo.”

You think that his smile is for real.


	11. please forget / don't forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to headcanon central.

You have always been fond of Waterfall’s soothing atmosphere. The darkness of the caves, the relaxing sound of gently rushing water, the thick bushes you can hide the entirety of yourself in. You love this place. Yet you find it sports a nature as melancholy as it is calming, especially now that it’s been emptied out. You discover the atmosphere becomes close to haunting when you listen too closely for life beyond the fireflies and find no sign of it.

You are lying in the grass on your stomach, facing a pond of glowing water. You have been here for fifteen minutes. There is a pink parasol lying next to you for no good reason whatsoever. You took it because you liked the color, and invited me to stand under it with you as you walked.

(You smiled when I did.)

You dip your hand into the pond and start tracing lazy circles. You watch the ripples as they swell and peter out.

“Are you bored of this place yet?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” you answer. “I kind of want to go home, but I kind of feel like staying.”

“I can’t believe we came all the way here just so you could pet the water and stare at rocks on a ceiling.”

“I’m not petting the water,” you say. “Now I’m petting the water.”

You pet the water.

The water is contented.

“Don’t we have _anything_ better to be doing?”

You yawn, pull your hand out of the pond, and roll onto your back. The damp grass is getting your clothing wet. You don’t care.

“No. Let’s stargaze.”

We are Underground, in case you forgot.

“These are the equivalent of cheap imitation stars.”

“Humor me.”

A moment’s hesitation, and then I lie on my back next to you and stare at the cavern ceiling. I have distant memories of doing this with Asriel, once upon a time. I would tell him about real stars and how, despite what I may say to you, I liked this better, because stars were for the wicked humans and a gem-studded sky was for monsters alone.

Like you, Asriel was fond of Waterfall’s serenity and could have stayed here for hours. It's fitting this is where they chose to place his memories statue.

You roll on your side towards me. (The grass makes a squishy sound.) You get the gist of what’s on my mind.

“Never mind that,” I say. “I wonder how much these rocks would go for on the surface?”

You frown. “I don’t want anyone to mine the Underground.”

“Hypothetically speaking, Frisk.”

You eye the gems above you and point to a chunky one that glitters brightly. It reminds you of Polaris, the North Star.

“That one would go for a lot,” you say. “Maybe they’d make it into jewelry.” You lower your hand. “But it watched over monsters from that spot up there for so long... it would be sad if it had to leave this place.”

I sit up. I don’t feel the wet grass beneath me.

“You get sentimental about the weirdest things.”

“Yeah.”

“Plus, there’s no more monsters down here for it to watch over.”

“...Yeah.”

And as I say that, you hear something. The sound of something hitting the ground face-first and scrambling to get back up. You jolt upright and climb to your feet. I see blades of grass sticking to your back and your hair. I move to brush them away, only to remember that I can’t.

“Someone’s here,” you say. I can feel your excitement.

“And we’re going to do what, hunt them down? Stalk them?”

That takes the wind out of your sails pretty effectively.

“I just want to know who’d come down here besides us,” you mutter.

“A nostalgic nerd like you. That’s all it is.”

You’re nearly pouting.

“Come on, Chara, can we check it out?”

I sigh, folding my arms.

“It’s your body. I can hardly stop you, now can I?”

Your face lights up faster than it fell, and we head out to investigate the mysterious presence infiltrating Waterfall. You bring the parasol with you so you don’t forget to return it to its proper place later.

☆ ☆ ☆

“Monster Kid?” you call out in confusion as the familiar shape comes into view, semi-obscured by the dim lighting. They‘re standing at the edge of a pier surrounded by a void of dark water. “What are you doing down here?”

You notice that something is off. Monster Kid does not look like themself.

They are _gray._

We shoot each other a meaningful look.

Gray Monster Kid’s spiked back faces you. They do not turn around, and they rub one ankle with their foot as if anxious.

You walk to their side and you are not afraid of the still, black water before you.

Gray Monster Kid speaks before you do as they stare out into the abyss.

“Have you ever thought about a world where everything is exactly the same... except you don’t exist? Everything functions perfectly without you..."

...

“Yes,” you say.

...

Gray Monster Kid laughs so sadly.

“...Is that so? I am sorry to hear that from one so young." They shake their head. "Personally, it terrifies me.”

They say nothing more, and you wonder if they’re transfixed by the terror of their thoughts. You remember the pink parasol you’re holding in your hand. You open it up and you use it to shelter the Gray Monster Kid.

They laugh so gently.

“A parasol? You know, that does make me feel a bit better about this,” they say. “Thank you. Please forget about me.”

We exchange a look again. You don’t move from where you’re standing.

“Please,” they continue, “don’t think about this any more.”

“...I can’t help it,” you say.

Lately, you have indeed done a lot of thinking.

About a lot of things.

About someone who has been forgotten.

...

Frisk?

“It’s too sad to be forgotten by everyone. _Someone_ has to remember you.”

...Frisk?

“My situation has troubled you so,” they say, and they stare down into their barely-visible reflection on the water. Their image is smooth as glass. “And I am sorry for it. Thus I believe you shouldn’t concern yourself with me any longer. No one should.”

“You’re wrong.” Your grip on the umbrella tightens.

“It will cause only more suffering.”

“But you’re scared. You don’t want to be forgotten.”

They(?) laugh so miserably.

“It matters not what you want when you no longer exist.”

“You do exist,” you say. “You’re right here in front of me.”

Gray Monster Kid's(?) tail swishes back and forth like a metronome. They(?) are agitated.

“A determined child, aren’t you?”

That's putting it mildly. You nod twice.

“More determined than myself... I suppose there is nothing I can do to deter you?”

“Nothing," you assure them(?).

...

You're something else, Frisk.

The person who looks like a gray Monster Kid lets out a long, low exhale. “...I owe you both an apology,” he says, facing you at last. “Once again I have failed to introduce myself.”

“It’s okay," you say, patting the foremost spike on his head. “We already know your name.”

☆ ☆ ☆

When we reach the surface, it’s raining.


	12. water falls

Saying goodbye to W.D. Gaster was harder than you knew it would be. You wanted to tell him everything’s going to be all right. You wanted to take him to the surface and show him the ways that humans and monsters are learning to live alongside one another. Most of all, you wanted to introduce him to his children. You wanted Papyrus to know who his father is. You want Sans to know he was right to hold onto those memories.

You cannot do any of these things. You are powerless.

You asked him if you could give him a hug before you left. He pointed out with some self-consciousness that he had no arms with which to reciprocate. You said that’s alright, and you wrapped your arms around his Monster Kid-shaped form the way Toriel always does for you after a nightmare that leaves you in tears.

“You are truly kindhearted,” he said when you reluctantly let go. “More-so than I deserve. Take the parasol with you. You’ll need it.”

And we did.

☆ ☆ ☆

“Walk with me?” you ask, reopening the parasol as you step out onto the mountaintop. There’s a light drizzle coming down. We forgot to check the weather before we left. The clouds aren’t that nasty. We should be fine until we get home.

“Whatever.” My phantom self stands under the parasol with you. “Don’t slip on the wet rocks,” I add. “Or you’ll end up like the good doctor.”

“That’s not funny,” you say, taking careful steps down the mountain. You say this to me a lot.

“Really. You’ll end up splattered across the mountain. You can RELOAD, but when did you last SAVE?”

“Before we climbed up.”

“That was hours ago.”

“I know,” you say, and grimace. SAVING right now seems to be a good plan. You call upon your reserves of determination. What will it be this time, Frisk?

Your desire to help Gaster fills you with determination.

I don’t know what I expected. You can’t do anything for him. You know that.

That doesn’t mean you don’t want to, huh? Whatever summons a SAVE POINT, I guess.

We're not far along when the phone tucked into your pocket starts to ring. You pull it out and see Toriel's number.

“Mom?" you ask, glancing worriedly at me and thinking I won’t notice. It's all right, you idiot, how many times do I have to say it?

“Frisk, my child. The weather has taken a foul turn." I overhear Toriel's voice. “Are you coming home?"

“Oh, yeah, I'll be back in a little while."

“Where are you?"

“Um." You don't know how Toriel would feel about you being high on a mountain when the weather's not great. You're not good at lying, either.

Tell her you were out visiting a monster who needed to speak with the ambassador and the trip is a little ways away. Your stomach twists as you follow my instruction. It’s only half a lie. The way things turned out, you did end up visiting a monster who’s a little ways away.

“Please do inform beforehand next time," she says. “I do not mean to pry into your affairs, but you have been gone long enough I began to worry.”

“AS HAVE I, FRISK!” Papyrus’s voice booms so loudly I almost thought you had them on speaker phone.

“I'm sorry, both of you."

How many times have I heard you say ‘I'm sorry?' You tell me in your head that it couldn't be helped this time. I'll concede that point.

“RETURN HOME QUICKLY SO I MAY MAKE YOU A WARM PLATE OF WELCOMING SPAGHETTI."

“And please be safe,” Toriel says. “Don’t run in the rain, and look both ways before you cross the street.

“I know, don’t worry. Love you both.”

“SANS, DID YOU HEAR THAT?”

“sure did, bro.”

“You too, Sans.”

“aw, shucks.”

“See you soon, Mom,” you say, quieter, and then you hang up the phone and return it to your pocket.

“I hate lying to her.”

“You’re such a goody two shoes, it makes me sick.”

“You could stand to follow my example.”

You start back down the mountain and motion for me to remain under the parasol with you. I’m not going to get rained on. It’ll go right through me. You insist. Is this actually about the rain at all?

“For a pacifist, you don’t take any BS,” I say.

“No swearing, Chara.”

“That wasn’t a swear. But see? You stand up to me. You’re not a passive-ist, is what I’m saying.”

“That one’s pretty good.”

“Naturally. I came up with it.”

An idle thought crosses your mind. You want to know if Gaster like puns.

☆ ☆ ☆

We’re not home yet and the clouds looming overhead are steadily getting darker. You can hear the crackling of thunder miles away. The pavement beneath your feet is slick and shiny with rain. The drizzle is morphing into a downpour.

You feel a ridiculous urge to step in a puddle. Not the time, Frisk.

Lightning arcs and sizzles across the sky. It’s beautiful. You don’t think so. The wind picks up as we walk, and your little parasol struggles valiantly against it. You hold onto it with both hands. The phone in your pocket rings. What terrible timing. If you let go, you think the parasol will be torn from your hands. You ignore the ringing.

The phone keeps ringing.

It keeps ringing.

Whoever’s on the other end of the line is determined to hear your voice. You might as well answer before they panic. You agree, and pull the phone back out. A gust of wind tears the parasol from your other hand, and it spirals up into the rainy sky, out of sight. You cover your face with your arm.

All I feel is slight pressure against skin I no longer possess.

“Hello?”  
  
“Frisk, dear! Are you all right?” Toriel. You had a feeling.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just wet.”

“My child!" You can hear her dismay. “You’ll grow ill.”

“No, I’m alright.”

“NONSENSE,” Papyrus cuts in. “I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WILL RESCUE YOU AT ONCE.”

“We — I’m not that far from home.” You hope nobody who isn’t Sans catches that slip of the tongue. If they do, they don’t comment on it.

“No, you cannot walk the whole way back,” Toriel says firmly. You imagine her sternly shaking her head and you smile. “Where are you?”

You look around for street signs. The rain blurs your vision.

“Bagel... Baker Street?”

Bagel Street? Really, Frisk?

“BAGEL BAKER STREET? I’LL BE THERE AT ONCE.”

“it’s baker street. you know the one?”

“OH! OF COURSE! I PASS BY ALL THE TIME!”

“Papyrus, if you would be so kind as to drive us out there?”

“NYEH HEH HEH! SIT TIGHT, FRISK! HELP IS ON THE WAY, IN THE FORM OF A FASHIONABLE RED CONVERTIBLE!”

“don’t forget to put the hood up.”

“NYEH!”

“Okay, I’ll wait,” you say. There’s no convincing them not to bother helping you. Has your determination been outdone?

Toriel tells you that she loves you and then you end the call.

You know, Frisk, we don’t have to wait. We could ask Sans to give us an instant shortcut home. But you want to indulge Papyrus and Toriel, and Sans probably knows that like he knows everything, so you’ll put up with the torrential rain a little while longer.

“‘sup.”

Speak of the devil.

He walks out from behind the street sign with his hoodie pulled over his head. He’s not carrying an umbrella, but he’s not getting wet. The raindrops above his head glow bright blue and fall away from him.

“Hi, Sans,” you say, entranced by the magic he’s employing.

“waitin’ on tori and my bro?”

“You know it.”

“thanks.”

He waves his hand and he uses his gravity magic on the rain falling onto your own head, adjusting the trajectory of the droplets.

“That’s amazing, Sans.”

“it’s no biggie.”

You almost forget that you spoke to his disappeared father just an hour or so earlier. Something in your face must have changed when that thought crossed your mind.

“something raining on your parade there?"

That gets a chuckle out of you.

“Nice one."

You don't answer. He doesn't ask.

...Hey, he's going to think _I'm_ the problem.

When Papyrus and Toriel arrive, Papyrus helpfully drives straight into a puddle and then slams on the brakes. Sans deflects the splash with blue magic before it makes contact. You thank him once more.

“YOUR HEROES HAVE ARRIVED, DEAR FRISK AND LAZY BROTHER,” Papyrus announces, unnecessarily rolling down the car window so you can better hear him.

“Hurry now, both of you get inside," Toriel implores. You do so. Sans is already in the car when you open the door, even though you never saw him enter. Nobody questions what Sans was doing there or how he made it to you before they did. They know that the only explanation for anything Sans does is that Sans is Sans.

“There are clean, dry clothes ready for you at home," Toriel tells you, reaching back to pet your soggy head. “Please, next time, be mindful of the weather.”

“I promise,” you say, and offer out your pinky for a pinky promise. She chuckles and obliges.

I retreat into your head on the drive home because I don’t want to sit next to dumb smug Sans, who will most definitely know I’m there and find a way to annoy me.

Your thoughts are weighed down by the good doctor’s situation.

...Frisk.

You can’t save everyone.


	13. can he feel his sins crawling up his spine?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very tentative offer, but I'm considering looking for a beta for this fic! (After a certain point my eyes start to glaze over my own writing, ahaha.) 
> 
> What I'd be looking for is someone basically willing to do any of the following: grammar check, point out plot holes/places I've contradicted myself, and provide input on the writing & characterization.
> 
> Like I said, it's tentative, but if that interests you, lemme know!

Grillby managed to open up a new grease pit on the surface. He was struggling to make ends meet for a while; it turns out starting a restaurant and keeping it running is hard work, and that goes doubly so if you’re a man made of literal fire. It scares the humans. It’s _magic fire_ is what these idiots don’t understand. If he were a walking fire hazard, everything he’d touch would combust. Do they not see him successfully wearing a bartender suit?

His new diner is kind of sad if you ask me, and his old establishment wasn’t all that impressive to begin with. You’re proud of him for making the most of what’s available to him. The old regulars have stayed loyal and drop by every day. (Endogeny has joined the rest of the dogs, which has not helped boost human attendance...) You and Sans frequent Grillby’s place as often as you can to support his endeavors.

Grillby is a soft spoken man, which is to say he speaks maybe one or two words every four hours. No exaggeration, I kept count one particularly boring evening. You’re still looking for the ACT that will get him to open up to you. You would try and make friends with an actual, ordinary fire if you could, Frisk. This is why you need me around: to keep you from chatting up a hot stove or a candlestick. You know it’s true and you puff out your cheeks at me.

☆ ☆ ☆

The weather’s turned from rainy to snowy. On the walk home from school, the freshly fallen snow crunches loudly beneath your shiny new boots. (They were a spur of the moment present from Undyne after she spotted them at a store and thought they were “badass”.) Boots are the only snow-appropriate clothing you have on. You forgot to check the weather again. Well, so did I.

You can make it through Snowdin dressed like this fine, but the temperature drops on the surface are more drastic than they ever were Underground. Thanks to magic, probably.

The crisp white snowflakes stick to your head and freeze your hair.

“ya look chilled to the bone,” says Sans, accompanying you home. You like to be out when there’s snow on the ground, and that’s why you endure the cold and don’t ask for a shortcut.

“C-can’t pun back,” you stammer, shivering.

“now that’s a problem.”

Sans drapes his hoodie over your shoulders, taking care to brush the snow off your head first, and then he yanks the hood up and over your eyes so you can’t see, pulling the drawstrings tightly. Ha, ha, comedian. You hear him snickering like the moron he is. Smells like condiments; you faintly detect traces of horseradish. I may gag, Frisk.

You manage to get the hood out of your face. You see that the only thing Sans has to wear is a thin white T-shirt.

“N-not cold?” you stammer, wrapping your arms around yourself after putting the hoodie on properly.

“nah. i have no skin."

Fair enough. Sans glances up and down, taking in your current condition. You're a little low on HP.

"hey, got an idea. i can't let you turn into a frisksicle, so let's hit up grillby's. warmest joint on the surface that ain’t a sauna, that’s for sure."

You stare forlornly at the pristine snowscape that surrounds you. You kind of wanted to build a snowman. (Your fingers would go numb, dummy.)

"it'll be there tomorrow, snow joke."

"O-okay."

“great. i’ll call tori and let her know.”

Decent plan. Temperatures like these have been known to kill.

Frostbite. Hypothermia.

...

I’m just saying.

☆ ☆ ☆

The warm, comfy, horseradish-smelling jacket is useless inside of Grillby’s. In fact, it’s stiflingly hot, and you remove it within minutes, sweating bullets. You hand the gross hoodie back to Sans across the table you’re sitting at, giving him the dead-eyed stare you usually inflict on me. Was this some kind of subtle joke on you? He grins infuriatingly. “i sure am helpful,” he says, putting his bony arms back through the sleeves.

“Ahuhu~ It’s nice to be out of the cold, isn’t it, dearies?”

You recognize that voice, spotting Muffet of all people walking up to your table. She’s sporting a professional black dress bearing a nametag, and in four separate hands holds a pen, a notepad, and two menus.

“Hi, Muffet,” you say. You don’t have any hard feelings about that time there was a misunderstanding and she wanted to turn you into a pastry. (You need to work on this whole “being so nice” thing.)

“hey,” says Sans. “didn’t know you worked here now.”

“Grillby wants to help us spiders get back up on our feet," she explains. (Their many, many feet.) “We patrons of the culinary arts have to stick together~" She hands you both the menus. “If you take a look inside, you’ll see that pastries are now available to order. Freshly baked by me and my lovelies, of course. Ahuhu!”

“so uh, the ingredients of your pastries.”

“One hundred percent to code.” She says and sighs. “It’s a shame we can’t do things entirely the spider way, but humans get so _squeamish_ about certain things that I’m afraid we had no choice...”

"can't imagine why they'd feel that way."

You think Grillby probably didn’t want anything made of spiders on his menu either.

...Speaking of spiders.

“Muffet, do you still have your pet?” You remember the hungry look in its eyes and how it never seemed to leave her side.

Her face brightens again, all five of her eyes glittering. “Why yes,” she croons. “My dear pet is in the back, eating everything we couldn’t feed to the customers.”

“heh, hope that doesn’t include any employees.”

“Oh no, I keep Crawly on a tight leash~ He’s only nibbled at Grillby once or twice!”

“welp.”

I question what sort of dumb animal would try and eat Grillby.

...

Something that wants a warm meal, I guess.

(Shut up, I’m funny.)

“Are you ready to order?” she asks, tapping the pen against the notepad as if nothing about that were concerning in the least.

Your select a slice of non-spider cake. The frosting is purple. Everything Muffet is involved with is purple. Sans orders a non-purple burger. I bet he has that ketchup bottle with him. Did he steal it from Grillby?

“All right, dearies!” says Muffet, writing down your orders in lavish cursive. “Your orders will be ready soon!” Then she retreats to the kitchen, where upon opening the door you can hear her scolding her pet for gobbling up a perfectly fine batch of non-spider cookies.

“...Did I ever tell you about how she almost fed me to, um, Crawly?”

“nope, but i’m not surprised.”

I know you can SAVE, Frisk, but shouldn’t that be more of a big deal to you two...?

...

 _Especially_ to the world’s worst protector.

...

Some promise. Was it just a _joke_ to the comedian?

How many times did you die for real?

Does he know what a SOUL looks like when it snaps in half?

Does he know what a SOUL looks like when it snaps in half _again and again and again?_

“something up with ksirf, kid?”

“They’re... mad about something. Don't worry about it.”

☆ ☆ ☆

The cake is the tastiest thing you’ve ever eaten that wasn’t made by Toriel (I bet you only have that qualifier because you’re biased) and your HP is maxed out. You tell Muffet how good it is and ask for some accompanying cider when she returns to your table to ask how things are going. Pleased to hear this, she does a little twirl.

“I’ll pass along the compliments to the rest of the staff~ The ambassador likes our cake~” she claps her hands.

Addressing Sans, she asks, “How about you?”

“good burger,” he says, giving a thumbs up.

“Wonderful~ Frisk, deary, I’ll get your cider in a moment. Would you like to take any of that cake home with you?”

It was a significantly-sized slice. You don’t think you can eat it all now.

“Yes please!”

“Ahuhu, okay~ Be right back!”

She could have asked Sans if he wanted to take his burger home, but was apparently blinded by her own bias.

Getting overlooked serves him right.

☆ ☆ ☆

There’s a lull in diner activity and Sans spots his chance to go say hi to Grillby; you walk up to the bar as well in order to do the same.

“see ya got some new staff," Sans says, sitting down on a barstool and propping his elbows up on the counter. He then waves his hand and plants you onto a barstool next to him.

“...Yes,” Grillby replies.  
  
“how’s she treating you?”

“... ... ...Muffet works hard,” Grillby says, studiously cleaning the inside of a glass. You’ve never heard him say a bad word about anybody.

“how about that pet of hers?”

“... ... ...Crawly is good for morale.”

Unbelievable.

“different strokes for different folks,” Sans says. “just hope ya didn’t bite off more than you can chew.”

You think Grillby might be smiling. Maybe.

“... ...Do not worry, Sans." he says, and a beat later he adds, "about anything.”

You wonder what that means, if it's worth reading into. He shouldn't worry about getting eaten? About the state of his business? About something that's been bothering one of them?

“Nor should you worry, Ambassador,” Grillby continues. There is a pause. You didn't expect to be addressed.

“...You have taken on a considerable responsibility," he starts in his baritone voice. He sets down the glass he was cleaning and you now have his full attention. "...But I speak for all of monsterkind when I say... ... ..we have faith in you, and we are truly grateful.”

He bows his fiery head.

You’re speechless.

“Thank you, Grillby,” you say when you find your words. “I won't let you down. You or anyone else. I promise.”

You are filled with determination.

“...I hope you continue to return to this establishment," Grillby says, lifting his head. "...We would be honored.”

You’re sure he’s smiling.

“Absolutely.”

It turns out the ACT you needed was to “remain patient”.

When it's time to leave, Sans tells Grillby to "put it all on his tab". Typical Sans. When you think Sans isn't looking, you slip Grillby the little bit of money you have on hand to pay for some of the cost. Grillby assesses your meager funds (as well as the fact that you are a twelve-year-old) and shakes his head, passing the money back to you. He says nothing.  
  
Grillby is truly kind.

You step out of the door to Grillby’s contented.

 _I_ am not content.

Frisk.

Let me borrow your body.  
  
You don’t know if you should let me. You know why I’m mad and you don’t think it matters.

It does.

Let me talk to Sans.

I’m not going to hurt him.

I promise.

I'm going to _keep_ my promise.

Frisk.

_Let me talk to Sans._

You take a deep breath, question the wisdom of this, and we swap. The snow is swirling all around us. The chill bites my face. My hands hurt. It’s so cold. I've never been this cold. This stupid hoodie he's letting you use again is the only warmth I have.

I want to dump it on the ground and _step on it._

“ice to see you, ksirf."

The snow blows harder. The hoodie ruffles in the wind. Sans is exposed in that thin little shirt of his. Vulnerable.

I stare him dead in the eye.

“You’re a real good-for-nothing, you know that?”

Sans chuckles mirthlessly.

“sure do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


	14. reason / excuse

“You promised Toriel you'd watch over Frisk,” is what I say, standing strong against the frosty wind, “and you failed _miserably._ ”

Sans grimaces, understanding washing over him. “i, uh, think we’re gonna need to have this conversation somewhere else.”

“I won’t let you run away.” I step towards him, stomping into the snow.

“i’m gonna answer you,” he tries to reassure me, “but that’s the face of somebody who’s freezing.”

“Fine.” This skin has turned to gooseflesh. I shiver despite myself. “For the sake of Frisk’s body.”

“good. my bro’s not home, we can talk there.”

“Wait. Call Toriel. Tell her we’ll be late.”

“alright.”

“Tell her we can’t leave Grillby’s because of the weather.”

“...heh. alright.”

Sans makes the dishonest phone call to a worried Toriel and we’re good to go. I'm... sorry we're lying to her again, Frisk.

This whole time you’ve been standing off to the side, eyes on the powdery ground beneath your feet. The truth is, you want to know his reasons too. Because you love Sans, you think it’s enough that he’s watched out for you here on the surface, but you died enough times in the Underground to wish Sans would have intervened once or twice.

Sans takes us through a shortcut behind Grillby’s that leads to the home he shares with his brother. It’s about the same as his old one, but it’s only got one level. The crack under his bedroom door is spewing magic fire or something like it, much like before. When he opens it up, it’s just a dingy room belonging to a pathetic slob who piles his dirty laundry in a corner and has five separate empty potato chip bags lying everywhere that _isn’t_ a trash bin, much like before. Smells disgusting. You and I wonder how he tolerates it. You think he's used to it.

“make yourself at home.” He gestures to his sheetless mattress. It’s stained with what may be ketchup. I remain standing. He sits down. The mattress creaks. “or not.”

“Start talking.”

“gimme a minute.”

At your request, I give him a minute. I tap my foot impatiently.

“you, uh, really care about frisk, don’t you?” he asks.

“ _Start talking_ , you imbecilic comedian.” I reach behind me and slam his door shut.

“right. so. have you ever completely and utterly given up on anything?”

That smile of his has never been more dissonant. The question catches me completely off guard. My face, which had been set into a determined frown, goes totally blank.

“Have I ever...?”

And then I start laughing. And laughing. I laugh so hard I clutch my stomach and I can’t breathe. You reach out for me, your phantom fingers brushing against my back. Sans’s smile grows ever more strained. I can see it through the tears, comedian. You’re not the only one who can read someone like an open book.

I’m gasping to catch my breath.

I finally say, “ _Like you have no idea,_ you smiling idiot,” and my voice, your voice, comes out as a snarl.

“...then i guess ya know what it’s like to not see a point in trying.”

_Just give up. I did._

Those words echo in your memory. You always wondered what it was Sans gave up on. Our talks with him recently made you conclude it had to do with getting home, but what does that have to do with keeping you from dying?

“What did _you_ give up on?” I'm not here to discuss _my_ past.

“pretty much everything.” He gestures to the poor state of his living quarters.

“Why?”

“because it didn’t matter.”

I feel my blood boil. “Keeping Frisk alive didn’t matter?”

“not much matters if it’s all gonna be reset.”

“Just because Frisk can come back from death, it doesn’t matter if they die?!” I take off his stupid hoodie and I throw it at him as hard as I can. He doesn’t try to deflect it. It smacks him in the face and falls into his lap. “Do you know how death feels? The _agony?_ The _helplessness?”_

I don't think he likes the mental images he's getting. “i don’t remember if i’ve ever died before, so that would be a no.”

“But Frisk remembers! They remember _everything_ and so do I, you worthless, garbage, good-for-nothing—”

You tell me to stop. You tell me to have MERCY.

This heart of yours, the heart I’m borrowing — is pounding. This anger makes me feel alive. I ball up my fists and grit my teeth. I won’t have MERCY.

I won't.

I...

“there’s more to the resets than you think,” he says.

...Fine, Frisk. I’ll let him talk.

“Then get to explaining before I _teach_ you what dying feels like.”

He buries one hand in the hoodie, perhaps taking comfort in the feel of the fabric.

“...our reports showed a massive anomaly in the timespace continuum. timelines jumping left and right, stopping and starting... until suddenly, everything ends.” He takes a deliberate pause. “this happened countless times. but, heh. those ends aren’t frisk’s fault. i know 'em too well now. they wouldn’t do that. they’ve used their power to do the right thing. but thing is, not everybody would. there’s somebody out there with that special power who’d abuse it.”

One name comes to our minds immediately. Our pain and our dread intermingles until I no longer know who’s feeling what. Sans continues.

“i dunno how many times the underground got reset. only that it did.” He winks. “and frankly, i’m never gonna be able to find out. nothing i can do about it. nothing i could do about the resets.”

He shrugs.

“so if everything’s resetting anyway, what i do in this timeline or that timeline... it doesn’t matter. saving frisk, not saving frisk. because all my effort’s gonna come undone anyway. why not give up?”

He looks around the room. He looks for you.

“that’s part of why i, uh. dropped the ball on protecting them. and because coming back from the dead, like i suspected they were... well. seemed like that was good enough for anybody.”

I can hear the clock on his wall ticking loudly. It's set to the incorrect time.

It's not that I don't _understand_ , Frisk. If it were anyone else he'd failed to protect out of existential apathy, I wouldn't care. But it's _you_ he failed to protect, and I cannot accept that. _  
_

“...hey ksirf. ask frisk something for me?”

“Ask them yourself.”

“alright. frisk. uh. how many times did you die? ballpark estimate.”

Thirty-seven, you tell me.

“Thirty-seven,” I relay to Sans.

He looks defeated.

Please, you tell me. Show MERCY.

...

I return your body to you.

“i’m sorry, buddy,” Sans says. He can’t bring himself to meet your eyes. If I had to guess, I’d say he thinks he’s the scum of the earth right now. As he should. You gingerly step over one of the potato chip bags to sit next to him on the old mattress. The disarray of his room distresses you.

“It’s okay.”

He looks down at his hands. “this is what i get for thinking i can afford not to care. a kid dying thirty-seven times. heh.” He nudges a discarded ketchup bottle with his foot. It slowly rolls across the floor.

You hug him as tightly as you can without breaking his brittle bones. He puts an arm around you, awkwardly. As if he does not know if he is worthy. You lean into him.

“i’m gonna do better,” he says. “i’m gonna keep my promise. kids like you deserve that much.”

“You’ve been keeping your promise ever since we came to the surface,” you say. “So I forgive you.”

He hangs his head so very, very tiredly and he ruffles your mop of hair like he did in the workshop.

“Remember, Sans,” you add, more softly. “Someone out there really cares about you.”

“...thanks, kid. ditto.”

You both stay that way for a long time.

☆ ☆ ☆

 Personally, I’d have decked him.

☆ ☆ ☆

...

_Hope is meaningless, there’s no reason to live, just give up._

...

  
Hey. Frisk.

...

This didn’t go like those thoughts always told you it would. You didn’t voice the horrible things you always feared would come spilling out of your mouth.

...

Do you still think you’re a bad person?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't like making Sans come across too openly angsty since his whole thing is never telling anybody anything, but he kind of needed to show his honest emotions in this chapter, so. Please let me know if it reads IC or not!


	15. better late than never

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for my mostly consistent update streak. ;__;

Toriel surprises you with a brand new set of art supplies and a drawing notebook when you come home from a wild karaoke session at Undyne and Alphys’s.

“I hope they serve you well,” she tells you. There’s pens, colored pencils, markers, paints, erasers, everything you could possibly need for furthering your burgeoning artistic career. You’re thrilled, and you nearly drop the case containing everything in your haste to wrap your arms around her in a fierce hug.

You don’t need to think about what your next big piece will be.

☆ ☆ ☆

After scouring Waterfall and finding no sign of Gaster, you head for the workshop to find the next best thing: the photos of Gaster Sans kept. You need them to serve as your reference material. You can’t rely on your own memory; you don’t want to depict him as a startled mass of goo or the forlorn specter of Monster Kid. No, the Gaster you draw will be Gaster in his prime. Gaster the Royal Scientist. Gaster the father.

The picture that captures the essence of the old Gaster best is one that was hidden at the bottom of the pile. He’s in the lab with Sans on one side and the now-broken machine on the other. He’s wearing a buttoned-up black coat that trails to the floor over a puffy white turtleneck. There are no cracks in his skull. Pieces of himself are not dripping onto the floor. He’s smiling broadly and he’s extending his arm as if to proudly present the machine to the viewer.

You can’t help wondering if this is the experiment he fell into.

...

You place the photo back and search for another one.

☆ ☆ ☆

You find a different photo that serves well enough, and you begin this time by sketching; you draw rough shapes and guidance lines before filling in the details. You're making progress.

Your Gaster turns out okay, but you want this to be perfect.

Perfection doesn’t exist, Frisk. You disregard that truth and carry on.

Your second Gaster turns out worse than the first. You scratch it out. Your third Gaster is middling. Your fourth is all right. Your fifth is garbage. What? That’s objectively true.

You’re determined.

You draw and draw until your fingers hurt and your hands are stained with graphite. Until you have a Gaster who captures the vibe of the man he once was.

Now all you have to do is draw a Sans and Papyrus that are equally good. And don’t forget you wanted to color in this work too. Should I mention you were going to give it a full background?

...

You’re determined.

  
☆ ☆ ☆

You are browsing the pictures on your phone to get a color reference for Sans and Papyrus’s favorite outfits. Cherry red for Papyrus’s signature scarf. Ocean blue for Sans’s gross hoodie. Gaster is monochrome, so you’re SPARED having to color him in.

It’s been forever since you started working on this piece. You say in your room for hours, breathing in pencil shavings for just as long. Toriel has to remind you to come eat breakfast and dinner when usually you’re right on time. People are getting worried.

You’re determined.

You’re a meticulous artist with an eye for details. Too meticulous. Frisk, I’m getting bored. You ask me for my patience, as if I have any.

Only for you, I suppose.

Then you ask me for my opinion.

...I think you should color in the snow, Frisk. Get some blue hues in there. And have the windows of their house cast some yellow light. Don’t forget their shadows. No, don’t make the shadows gray, that’s boring.

Following my advice, you like what you see and thank me for my input. What better do I have to do? Advising you and commentating on your actions is my life’s primary hobby. (Or should I say, my death’s?)

When Toriel has long since gone to bed and the sun is inching out over the horizon, you hold up your notebook and say that your work is _finished._

Three happy skeletons holding hands in front of a welcoming snowcapped home.

You’re an artist, Frisk.

☆ ☆ ☆

You text Sans when you get home from school to tell him you have something to give him. As much as you wish you could show your drawing to Papyrus, it would be hard to explain who Gaster is and why he’s there. You promise yourself to draw something special for Papyrus later.

“what am i getting” Sans replies fifteen minutes later.

“You'll have to come and see.”

“i’m lazy”

“Sans.”

“that’s me”

“It’s a surprise and something I promise you’ll love.”

“i dunno if i like surprises”

“Sans.”

“wow you’re really twisting my humerus over it”

“Which bone is that, by the way?”

“arm bone”

“Oh, I get it now.”

“yeah see i’m a part-time anatomy professor, wouldn’t know otherwise”

You chuckle to yourself, and then consider Sans’s habit of working odd jobs and wonder if maybe, just maybe...

No way, that’s not possible. He’d need a degree.

We think.

“gonna need to wait til break time,” Sans adds (as if every hour of the day isn’t break time for him).

One of the places Sans _actually_ works part-time is the town library, which has been vandalized by giggling monster teenagers on two separate occasions to make the sign outside read “Librarby”. (The library staff has taken it in stride.)

A fantastic thought occurs to you: it will be another half-hour until his shift ends, so why not go visit him there? There were some things you wanted to check out, besides.

The temperature is just shy of chilly; to be safe, you bundle up in a knit hat, your favorite fluffy coat that always keeps you toasty, and a red scarf you bought online because it matched Papyrus’. It’s several feet too long for you and you love it. (Papyrus does too, because did anyone think he wouldn’t?)

You tell Toriel where you’re going, tuck your drawing notebook under your arm, and trot out the front door.

☆ ☆ ☆

“Hey you. Have I seen you before?”

You come to a halt on the sidewalk when a boy with shaggy hair addresses you, standing up from the bus stop bench. You guess he’s maybe a year or two older than you are.

“I’m the ambassador of monsterkind,” you say.

“Ugh, I thought so."

Don't bother with this one, Frisk.

“...Sorry, I have somewhere to be,” you tell the boy, and start walking.

“Wait,” he says, following you. “Won’t talk to humans since you’re so buddy-buddy with those freaks?”

You keep walking.

“Stop ignoring me, you little punk.”

You stop. You face him.

“Do you have something against monsters?” you ask. What do you _think_ , Frisk? You can’t reason with this kind of worthless human. Keep on walking.

...You don't.

“Yeah, I do. They need to get the hell back underground.”

“Why?” you ask earnestly.

“What do you mean, why? That’s where they belong. The surface is for _people._ ”

“They’re people too,” you tell him. “The surface belongs to everyone.”

“Monster-sympathizers are the worst,” the boy says, rolling his eyes. “And you’re the worst of all.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” you tell him.

“‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’” he echoes in a mocking voice. I hate this boy. He jerks his chin in the direction of your sketchbook. “What’cha got there that’s so special to you, ambassador? Share with the class.”

Before you can say anything he’s tearing it from your hands with more force than you can match.

Unforgivable.

“Give that back.”

He opens it up and starts flipping through it with no regard for your privacy.

“I knew it. It’s all doodles of your shitty monster friends.”

You’re uneasy.

“This isn’t necessary. Give it back to me.”

“Hey, ambassador, watch.” He tears out one of the pages. He opens his hand and lets the wind take it away.

You grasp for it, but it slips past you.

_Unforgivable._

“Humans who like monsters best have turned on their own,” he states, tearing out another page like a wing from a butterfly. “They’re not human anymore.”

 _This_ is the wickedness of humanity, Frisk.

You tell me it’s not. You tell me he’s misguided.

“I love both humans and monsters. Both are equally good. Both deserve to exist.”

He tears out another one of your rough sketches and tosses it without a second thought. Your heart twists.

"Please give it back."

"Nope."

Damn it, FIGHT him, Frisk!

...

But you won't.

He flips to the page with your precious family picture of Sans, Papyrus and Gaster. The one you spent hours upon hours making _just right,_ as close to the impossibility of perfection as you could manage.

“This one’s nice,” the boy says. “Or it would be, if it weren’t a picture of living Halloween decorations.”

“They’re my friends,” you say, putting on an air of calmness. “Look at the smiles on their faces. They’re good people.”

“They’re not _people,_ ” he insists. He tears the page out.

Frisk, let me take control, I’m going to _beat the shit out of him_ , I’m —

He drops your sketchbook onto the ground. You lunge for it. Clutching it close, you look up and see the boy looming over you, holding the picture you poured your SOUL into right over your head.

“This is what I think of your friends,” he says, and you watch helplessly as he rips the picture in half.

He releases the two torn pieces into the wind.

A blue light catches them, holds them still.

You hear slippers scuffing against the sidewalk.

“hey pal," Sans says with a rigid grin. “think ya dropped these.”


	16. kintsugi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2000+ hits? Almost 200 kudos? Holy shit, guys, thank you so much.

The two pieces of the torn picture flutter down into Sans’ grasp. He puts them together like the world’s simplest puzzle and pores over the resulting image. You can’t bear to watch. You don’t want him to see it in this state.

The boy sizes up Sans, eyes going wide. “You’re one of them. From — from the picture.”

“sans the skeleton, nice to meet ya.” He holds up the paper halves. “kinda don’t appreciate _this_ , so, uh.”

His eyes blink black in that nightmarish way.

“D o n ‘ t  d o  i t  a g a i n.”

You feel a grateful pang in your chest.

The boy gasps unabashedly before his attention laser-focuses on you, not having moved from your position at his feet, arms wrapped around your sketchbook like it’s a lone life preserver ring at the scene of a shipwreck.

“You summoned him here!” He accuses, pointing a finger at you. “You called your skeleton crony!”

“That’s not what happened,” you say quietly. “Can we please just talk about this —”

He grabs you by the collar and yanks you to your feet. You stumble. You wince. Your sketchbook clatters back to the ground.

“hey, bucko, don’t —”

“You’re a traitor,” he growls inches from your face.

**Let me take control, Frisk.**

...

But you refuse.

“You don’t understand,” you say to the boy. “But you can if you try.”

“You’re _delusional,_ ” he spits, shoving you as hard as he can. You trip over your shoelaces. You brace yourself to hit hard concrete but you don’t, because Sans’ magic has saved you a potential skull fracture.

“i've got some solid advice for ya,” Sans says, strolling up to the boy and patting your shoulder on the way, his magic gently re-orienting you. “quit it. before you, uh, piss off somebody who _won’t_ hesitate to beat you down. capiche?”

Something inside the boy snaps. Maybe it’s the “capiche” that does it.

“Hey, hey, _I’ve_ got some advice. How about you go back to your _grave_ , skeleton man?!”

He winds up his fist and he lunges. The next thing you know, a boy much taller, much stronger than you is punching you in the face, and you’re staggering back, Sans has grabbed your shoulders, you can taste blood, it’s dripping from your nose, your meager HP depletes.

Frisk, you _idiot_ , I can’t remember when we last SAVED! What were you thinking, jumping in front of Sans like that?!

 _Because he can’t take a hit_ , you tell me.

The boy regards his bloodied fist with bafflement, and I spot beads of sweat dripping down Sans’ skull.

“Stop,” you say with a ragged breath, holding your purpling face in one hand. “Everyone _stop._ ”

For someone who says you’re not a human any more, the boy sure doesn’t know what to make of having actually hit a person he recognizes as human-shaped.

For someone who said he was going to protect you, Sans sure doesn’t know what to make of you shielding him like that, not here on the surface where there are _consequences._

“...Monsters are nice,” you croak out to the boy, pulling away from Sans. “If you get to know them. If you give them a chance.” You spit blood onto the sidewalk. “They’re... they’re worth protecting.”

You pick your sketchbook back up off the ground. Your head hurts. It hurts. You’re dizzy. Something’s keeping you from collapsing onto unforgiving pavement.

“They like pie, and puzzles, and jokes, a-and anime... Maybe... maybe you met one that wasn’t nice, and now you hate them all. I don’t — I don’t know. ”

In your mind, you see... an inverted echo of myself.

“But they’re... not as bad as you think... Sans didn’t... he didn’t hurt you, right...? So...”

The boy is silent.

Sans grabs your wrist.

“let’s go home, frisk.”

You black out.

☆ ☆ ☆

_...please... wake up! You are the future of humans and monsters!_

 ☆ ☆ ☆

You open one eye. The other is held shut by something bumpy and cold. You’re lying in a red race car bed, tucked snugly into the sheets. You have a splitting headache and a good portion of your face is in pain.

“FRISK!” exclaims Papyrus, who is sitting on a chair next to you, holding an ice-pack to your swollen bruises. “YOU’RE AWAKE! SANS! THE HUMAN IS AWAKE!”

“heard ya, bro,” Sans says from the opposite side of the room. He’s staring out the far window with an expression as vacant as I’ve ever seen on him. “might wanna keep your voice down a little.”

“The Great Papyrus will be the Greatly Quiet Papyrus!” Papyrus says, hushing himself to the softest decibel he can reach. “How are you feeling? Would you like soup? Spaghetti?”

I half-expected him to ask about spaghetti-soup. How nasty. You breathe a laugh.

“Sans,” says Papyrus in response, shooting his brother a worried glance, “I don’t think the human is well.”

“bet they thought of something funny.”

“ _Sans!_ ” Papyrus says, fighting to keep his voice down. “What if their “concussion” is serious?”

“we’ll take ‘em to a hospital.”

“No hospital, please,” you rasp, waving a hand. “Head hurts and that’s it.”

Besides the blood you remember having spilled. (One of the skeleton brothers must have cleaned it off of you.)

“bet it does,” Sans says, shuffling over to us. “that kid had a mean right hook.”

“You valiantly defended my frail brother,” Papyrus says. “As to be expected from our Frisk!”

We can both imagine vividly what would have happened if you hadn’t done that. We both think Sans is capable of more than he lets on, but we know his weakness is his fragile constitution. With enough malicious intent, that boy could have snapped Sans’ bones like they were toothpicks and then ground him into dust.

“Had to,” you say.

“i owe you one,” Sans says.

Color me curious. How is the _worthless protector_ going to make up for this?

“Papyrus?” You carefully turn to him. The pillow beneath your head is cushy and comfortable. “Could you make me some soup?”

Papyrus beams, eager to be useful. “I’ve been working on a masterful minestrone recipe!”

“Awesome,” you say.

“Oh, but who is to hold this ice-pack?” Papyrus asks.

“I can — ”

“i’ll do it,” Sans offers. Papyrus stands and Sans takes his seat.

“I’m happy to see you taking the initiative for once, Sans,” says Papyrus. “I will return shortly with my tasty elixir! Nyeheh!” He darts out of the room.

“How did you know to come help me?” is the first thing you ask when you’re alone.

“i didn’t. convinced the boss to let me off early so i could drop by your house, but i ran into you and that other guy first.” He reaches into his hoodie. “guess this is what you wanted to show me?”

The picture.

You pull the covers up higher, wishing you could hide your entire face.

“I’m so sorry. He ruined it.”

Sans winks. “nothing a little tape or glue can’t fix.”

“I wanted it to be perfect.”

“no such thing as perfect,” he says. “and that’s okay.”

“Do you like it? Even as it is now?”

“what do you think?” he asks, and you sense a genuine warmth from Sans. “me, gaster, bro... we got torn apart, but the pieces are still there. and i’m not one for hoping, but... makes me think we could be put back together someday.”

...

“frisk?”

“I’m — I’m fine.”

“didn't take you for the weepy type. if papyrus sees you like that, he isn’t gonna leave your side.”

You start chuckling despite the sniffles. “Like a big bony puppy dog.”

"doggone right."

When you swallow your embarrassingly sappy display of emotion, Sans says, “that was a pretty nasty blow you took for me.”

“It’s not like I haven’t been hurt before.”

 _Hurt too much,_ his averted eyes say.

You’re right, comedian.

“my job’s to keep that from happening anymore.”

“How did I get here?” you ask him, and I’m not sure if he knows where this is going.

“took you through a shortcut after you passed out.”

“Then you protected me,” you state.

“that's one way of looking at it." He shrugs. "the other way's that i met the bare minimum requirements of 'protection'. if that."

“What else could you have done?" you ask, and struggle to sit up in bed despite the increasingly violent throbbing in your head that comes with every movement.

"i can think of a couple things."

“That's hindsight talking. Look, Sans. You cared enough to intervene and save that picture, and you kept me from falling and hurting myself, and you brought me to your own home after he punched me. You're keeping your promise."

Sans doesn't appear to be in the mood to argue with you. He looks tired.

“...if you're happy with that, i guess i won't be able to tell you not to be."

“That's right," you say nodding, and then wince. You lean back onto the pillow. Sans presses the ice-pack to your face more firmly.

You are the biggest fool there is.

“FRISK!" bellows Papyrus from the kitchen, having forgotten to be quiet. “YOUR GOURMET SOUP WILL BE DELIVERED SHORTLY! NYEHEHEH!"

“my bro might have substituted a few ingredients," Sans warns you in a whisper.

“I'll eat the whole thing," you say.

☆ ☆ ☆

The soup is atrocious, and at the same time does wonders for your pain.

Sans calls Toriel to explain your situation. Papyrus sits by your side and introduces you to each of his individual action figures. The annoying dog appears through mysterious means to tug at your bed-sheets, forcing Papyrus to chase him around the house.

You think on what Sans said about your picture.

You think something that's been put back together could be just as beautiful as something that was always whole.


	17. 5:15 A.M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a simple, comfy chapter.

You wake up in your own bed. Through the darkness, your digital clock blares the time — 5:15 A.M. — in neon red. When did you get here? You don’t remember. Toriel must have come to pick you up from Sans and Papyrus’ after you nodded off.

You reach up and touch your face. It’s tender and bruised. It’s going to stay that way for a while yet. That brat of a boy came close to breaking your nose. You should rest, but you’re not keen on spending any more time lying down.

Too bad. Go back to sleep.

You’ve _died_ before, you think at me. What’s a punch to the face in comparison? You pull off the covers and climb out of bed. Your head swims in response to the movement. You suck it up and make a beeline for the kitchen. Your stomach is aching for food.

Yell for Toriel, she'll make you something.  
  
You ignore me.

Near the kitchen is the living room, and in the living room is... a sleeping bag. Inside the sleeping bag is a snoozing skeleton. What is Papyrus doing here? Did he insist he come stay in case you needed anything? You tiptoe so as not to disturb him.

He would _want_ to be disturbed if he knew you were awake. You’re being overly considerate.

You open up the fridge and a dull yellow light is cast over you. Hearing the creaking of the fridge door, Papyrus pops out of his sleeping bag, fully alert.

“FRISK!” he shouts from the living room. “Er, I mean, Frisk!,” he amends. “You should be resting!”

“I’ve rested enough,” you say, half-shutting the door.

“After being punched in the face, humans require 24 to 48 hours of rest and relaxation,” Papyrus says, as if paraphrasing something he read online. “I am here to stand guard and make sure that happens.”

“Stand guard? Am I your prisoner again?”

If you have to ask, Frisk, you know the answer.

Proudly, he says, “I’m protecting you from your own bad decisions!”

Emphasis on _bad_. Surrender to your "captor", Frisk.

I don’t like to see you lying in a bed like a corpse, but may I remind you that what you suffered is called a concussion? You promised Toriel to be safe. Taking care of yourself after getting hurt is a part of that.

...

“Can I have something to eat?”

“Nyeh! That's right, you must be terribly hungry if you got up to scavenge like this!" Scavenge? Papyrus has a strange vocabulary. "What would you like?”

“Something microwavable, please.”

Papyrus, thankfully, can use a microwave competently. Gold star for Papyrus. You shuffle back into your bed as he prepares your instant meal. Your head thanks you for being reasonable. Five minutes later you hear a knock at your (open) door. Papyrus is respecting your boundaries.

“Come in,” you say.

“I could make better lasagna than this,” he says, holding the carton of food out to you. When you take it, he kneels down at your bedside.

“I know," you assure him. “But it’ll do. Thanks.”

“Would you like anything else? A bedtime story?”

It dawns on you that from the moment Sans took you back to their house, Papyrus has been completely willing to take care of you without a second thought or word of complaint.

And along with that thought comes another. A memory, or maybe a lack thereof.

“Papyrus?”

“Yes? What’s the matter? Is it the lasagna? I knew it.”

“Not the lasagna. ...It’s nothing.” You shovel lasagna into your mouth. Tastes okay.

“That sounds like something that isn’t nothing.”

A moment‘s delay.

“Can you imagine... not being read bedtime stories?”

He gapes comically. I wish I could take a picture. “Sans reads one to me every night! My life wouldn’t be the same otherwise! What a horrible thought." Frowning, he continues, “why do you ask?”

The cat’s caught your tongue.

“Frisk...” he narrows his eyes. The cogs in his head turn and they turn.

...

“Could it be... no one reads _you_ bedtime stories?”

I’m shocked by his intuition.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I mean, before, when I was little, nobody...” You shrug. You eat more lasagna.

_Before._

Papyrus knows better than to dig too deep when that word comes up.

“I will fix this,” Papyrus says. He stands up and thumps his fist against his rib cage. “I will bring the glory of bedtime stories into your life!”

“But I don’t have any,” you say, glancing at your bookshelf.

“That’s all right,” he says, kneeling back down. He places a gloved hand over your arm and squeezes it gently, trying to comfort you. “I have an excellent memory! I can recite one of my favorites to you word-for-word.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to sleep?” you ask. “It’s five in the morning.”

Papyrus scoffs. “Sleep can wait when my favorite human has been bereft of bedtime stories for this long.”

“You’re very kind, Papyrus.”

“You flatter me!" he exclaims. “But I _am_ pretty great.”

I will concede that Papyrus is an acceptable person.

— That doesn't mean I've started getting fond of him, Frisk.

You chuckle at both me and him. Rude.

“Now then, which story would you like to hear?"

“How about your most favorite of all?"

“Excellent thinking! In that case..." He clears his throat, however it is a person without a proper throat does such a thing. “Once upon a time there lived Fluffy Bunny, the fluffiest bunny in all of the kingdom. Fluffy Bunny had a favorite game..."

☆ ☆ ☆

I watch you drift off to sleep as Papyrus is in the middle of dramatically recounting a game of peek-a-boo. When he takes in the sight of your peaceful face, he trails off and stands back up. He takes the half-eaten carton of lasagna from your hands and throws it away, responsibly placing the used fork in the dishwasher. He returns to pull your covers up to your chin and pats you lightly on the head before retiring to his sleeping bag.

...And even then he finds himself checking back in three or four more times before he’s finally satisfied that you’re resting well, because Toriel warned him of your nightmares.

You dream of fluffy bunnies and kindhearted skeletons who chase away your demons with a smile.


	18. you never gained LOVE

You compared me to the shaggy-haired boy, that day. You thought my disdain for humans paralleled his disdain for monsters. You refuse to change your stance: we are two sides of the same coin whose prejudices are inverse.

Meaning that we are equally wrong.

If it were anyone else but you saying this, Frisk, I’d tell you to go straight to hell.

I have my _reasons_ , Frisk.

“So must he," you tell me. “Everyone has reasons. That doesn't mean the way they act because of them is right."

☆ ☆ ☆

_“Maybe... maybe you met one that wasn’t nice, and now you hate them all. I don’t — I don’t know. ”_

...

_“But they’re... not as bad as you think... Sans didn’t... he didn’t hurt you, right...? So...”_

☆ ☆ ☆

I am not evil, you believe, and you are not evil, I _know_. You tell me this means we cannot be the only humans who lack a malicious nature. I have my doubts.

“People are individuals. They make mistakes _and_ they do good things,” you say. “I'm asking you to try giving them another chance. You gave _me_ a chance.”

“You’re an exception," I state. "You're unlike the others.”

“Other humans might surprise you the way I did.”

“And if they don’t?”

This gives you pause.

You take my spectral hands in yours.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

A sparkling light materializes in the space between us. It burns like a palm-sized star. A SAVE POINT. You are determined to keep your word.

“But I believe,” you continue, “you won’t be disappointed.”

...

“And if _I_ hurt the humans? Because I hate them?”

You brush your forehead against mine.

“Chara,” you say. “I believe in you.”

“Why? Why on earth should you?”

“Because you’re my partner,” you say. “My best friend.”

☆ ☆ ☆

Human.

What does it mean to be human? Mankind has been asking itself this question since its inception. I always thought the answer was obvious.

To be human is to be wicked. Merciless. Without love or compassion. The people of my village, in the hatred inherent to their beings, drove me to seek the eternal sleep Mt. Ebott would grant my SOUL.

Obviously, that did not come to pass.

Yet I died anyway, driven to it by the hatred inherent to my _own_ being, surrounded by monsters who were more a family to me than my real family had ever been.

(My hateful mother, my neglectful father. I was never the child they asked for.)

Upon my death, my disastrous pact with Asriel, I slumbered. Years passed.

And then I woke up. Without a SOUL. Without a purpose.

I met you. A human identical to myself in all respects save one: you possessed compassion. You did not hate humans. You did not hate monsters. Your heart bloomed with MERCY.

I didn’t understand. Nor did I believe it, at first.

I chose early on to act as the narrator of your journey. I didn’t know what else to do, and it proved entertaining enough. You acted so kind, so merciful. You complimented Napstablook, you laughed at Snowdrake's puns, you pet and played with Greater Dog. I observed your interactions with the monsters and waited for the moment you’d inevitably succumb to your inherent human evil. To drop the pacifist act and reveal your true nature. To prove me right about humanity.

But you never did.

You vetoed every hurtful ACT I suggested. No mockery, no malice, no sadism. Me, the devil on your shoulder, could not tempt you.

And as we continued throughout the Underground...

I began to believe in you. You, a _human._

I felt the goodness of your being bleed into the emptiness of mine.

...

I’m still just me. Spiteful, vindictive.

There are some things that won't change.

...

But there are some things that can. Your determination proved that.

I think, because of your example... because of you, my spirit, my dead and SOULless self... was able to understand love once again, in some infinitesimal way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chara has a long way to go, but perhaps this is a starting point.


	19. to (not) exist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's been a while! I was working on a comedic chapter, but I'll have to save it for next time, I'm afraid. This got written instead.
> 
> Without spoiling too much, keep the content warnings in mind for this one. There's also a brief reference to transphobia.

We search regularly for Gaster, but we never find him. I start to think that he’s gone for good. He’s a man that the world forgot, not supposed to exist any longer. That we were able to meet him must have been a glitch on the universe’s part. An anomaly that’s been corrected. But you don’t give up no matter what I tell you, because you are determined. He must be so lonely, and you can't bear the thought.

At long last your toil pays off. In your heart, you knew it would. The gray door in Waterfall has re-appeared. Its incredible plainness belies what an extraordinarily unnatural thing it is. You hurry over and knock briskly on the door. You want to be polite about this instead of barging on in like last time. I guess that makes sense. It would be an absolute pain if he disappeared again and we went back to square one.

On these Gaster-hunting expeditions, you always bring a small bag with you holding a certain something you want to give to him. You might finally have your chance now. The thought makes you smile like the sap that you are.

The door creaks open to reveal about seven feet of gooey skeleton monster, a curious look on his cracked face. He didn’t have those cracks in the photos. I assume they’re a result of the accident. You pay his disfigurement no mind. All that concerns you is that he's _here._

“Frisk,” says Gaster, traces of astonishment in his voice. There’s a hoarse quality to it, almost like that of a heavy smoker. Imagine, Frisk, a Royal Scientist with a nicotine addiction.

That’s not funny, you tell me. Maybe I wasn’t joking.

“I’m so glad to see you again,” you say to him. “My partner thought we might never find you.”

Frisk, what are you —

...No, wait, that’s right. He knows about me, this man who’s always _listening._ Does falling into lab experiments grant you a kind of omniscience? Is that how it works?

“They were correct to be doubtful,” says Gaster. Of course I was. “It’s not a given that I should remain in this plane of existence, capable of interacting with others.”

“But you’re here,” you say, beaming. “We found you.”

“After spending a great deal of time searching fruitlessly,” he says like a scolding schoolteacher.

Seriously, how much does he know?

“It paid off,” you say.

“I suppose I cannot argue against that,” he relents, sounding weary. “Now that you’ve found me, ah... what is it you want?”

He doesn’t seem like he knows how to word that without sounding rude. You don't take any offense.

“Can I come in?” you ask.

“It’s a pitiful little space,” he cautions, glancing over his shoulder.

“That’s okay,” you say. “I don’t mind.”

“...Suit yourself,” says Gaster. “I am not sure I can leave it safely right now anyway."

The rectangular room is suffocating in its emptiness. There is absolutely nothing of note inside. No furniture, no pictures, no color. I would lose my mind if I had to stay in here all by myself. You think you would too.

“How often can you leave?” you ask.

“It depends,” he says without inflection.

Don’t dwell on this, Frisk.

“It is not so terrible,” he adds soon after, anticipating that you may not have liked that answer. “Even when I cannot leave, I can hear what’s happening outside this space, and listening is a good way to pass the time.”

Eavesdropping, in other words.

(...What do you mean, that’s exactly what _I_ do every day?)

“How does that work?” you ask, taking a seat on the floor. You place your bag beside you.

“Ah, that is to say...” He fidgets. “It relates to the accident. Are you sure you wish to know?"

"I can handle it. Unless you don't want to talk about it?"

“No, no. I... would rather someone out there know the truth. When I fell into my experiment, you see, I was scattered across time and space,” he explains. “Those fragments of myself pick up on conversations and such, and that information is related back to me.”

Ahh.

“So that’s what your colleague meant when they said you were listening.”

I bet it’s annoying. Imagine how much inanity he must hear on a regular basis.

“Precisely,” he says. “I do apologize if I have overheard anything I wasn’t meant to.”  
  
“Don't worry about it,” you tell him, and you think you’ve found a good opportunity to segue into giving him that thing you made. You reach for your bag. “Hey, can I show you something? You might already know about it, but...”

He shakes his head and draws closer. “I’ve no idea. What is it?”

You pull from your bag a familiar picture.

You hand it to Gaster.

“The tear in the middle is supposed to be there,” you say. “So it matches the original I gave to Sans. At first I was really upset about what happened to it, but now I think it’s better like this.”

Gaster examines the picture intently, absorbed in the little world portrayed there. He turns away from you.

“You’re right,” he says, his voice strained. “It is.”

The previously unintentional symbolism isn't lost on him.

Gaster is a _sentimental_ man, isn't he? Was he always this way? Did it take losing everything to make him like this? Perhaps fragility is a Royal Scientist hiring requirement.

“You’re a good child, Frisk," he tells you, his throat tight. "I can’t imagine why you...”

“...Why I what?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head once more as if regretting his words. “Nothing.”

You don’t think it’s nothing, but you don’t want to ruin the moment so you let it be.

“I will keep this with me,” he says. “It’s...” He closes his eyes. “It’s what I dream of, though I know it cannot be."

You want to make his dream come true.

He does not exist. You cannot help someone who does not exist, Frisk.

...

You pretend you don’t see his eyes getting misty.

☆ ☆ ☆

You talk with Gaster for a while. As a scientist, he has a great deal of interesting knowledge to impart. From your spot on the floor you ask a lot of questions about various topics and he answers all of them with ease, pacing back and forth across the room while gesturing animatedly. You suspect he’s sorely missed having someone to talk to and you’re happy to indulge him for as long as you can. There is yet one more question you’d like an answer to, so when it feels like enough time has passed, you broach the subject of the cryptic comment he made earlier.

He stills and goes silent. He wrings his bony hands together.

“There is... something that troubles me,” he confesses. “When we spoke on the pier, while I was in the form of the monster child... do you recall what I asked you?”

“Yes,” you say. “If I ever thought about a world where I don’t exist, and everything functions perfectly without me.”

...

“It was a mostly hypothetical question,” he says. “I did not really expect you to answer. And I thought to myself, why would a child ever wonder something like this? Such a sad, dark thought... People’s idle minds will lead them to wonder about the strangest things... I know that, and yet I could not shake my unease. I am aware, you see, of the legend surrounding Mt. Ebott. Now, you have obviously found a safe method of entering the Underground, but it couldn’t always have...” He trails off.

_Was it foolishness? Was it fate?_

Gaster sighs, his large, sludgy form hunching over.

_Or was it... because you...?_

“When all is said and done, it is none of my business, is it?”

You thread your fingers together and place your hands neatly in your lap.  I kneel down at your side.

You consider your options.

_..._

You're okay with this.

“...Can I tell you something, Gaster?”

“There is no obligation to share anything you do not wish to.”

“I want to.”

“I see. Then I will hear you out.”

...

A thousand images flash through your mind, none of them happy. Calling home again and again and no one picking up. Lonely birthday parties. Wandering off on your own, knowing your absence would never be remarked on...

The words spill forth. There are so many things you’ve bottled up and left unsaid to all but me.

“My parents didn’t want a kid, but... I happened. They didn’t know what to do with me; I was a burden. They tried to act like I didn’t exist... like if they ignored me for long enough, I would disappear and they wouldn’t have to deal with me any more. I didn’t have any friends, either. I’m not a boy or a girl, so my classmates thought I was weird. That someone like me shouldn’t be.”

You’re not looking at Gaster. You’re staring into the faces of every single person, every **bastard** who’s ever rejected you.

How can you not hate them, Frisk? How can you recount this without your blood boiling at the unfairness of it all? Your memories make me seethe.

“I started thinking it would be better if I weren’t here,” you continue, remaining composed. “Everyone already acted like that was the case. The world would continue on like I never existed, and I was okay with that... I went to Mt. Ebott for that reason."

“There is great cruelty in the realm of humans,” murmurs Gaster. The cracks in his face seem more pronounced, giving the impression of a wrinkled, worn old man. “I am so sorry. For a child to endure so much, to feel they must take such drastic measures... it is unconscionable. As a father, I...” His face contorts unhappily.

“You’re a better father than mine was,” you say. “I know that much. When I gave you that picture, I could see how much you love Papyrus and Sans.”

“I love them with all of my heart.” He says, emphatic. “Even if they forget me, and even if my being should be shattered completely, I will love them.”

You wish Papyrus and Sans could hear this.

“But you, Frisk,” says Gaster. “...Am I correct to believe you have now found the love you were once denied? That you no longer wish to destroy yourself?”

“Yes,” you say, honestly and without hesitation. “My real family, my friends... they love me, and I love them.”

Your SOUL is bursting with affection, drowning out the pain.

An image of me flashes through your mind.

Me, Chara. Your partner.

“Good,” says Gaster, his worried visage relaxing into a small smile. “You have many years ahead of you. You will make up for the time you lost in that loveless world, I am certain of it.”

You see a tinge of yearning behind his eyes. His time has come and gone. He is the man who no longer exists. He knows how precious love and life are because he’s been starved of both.

Guilt starts to churn inside your stomach, replacing the good feelings that had been blooming in your chest. It’s completely irrational, Frisk.

“...Gaster.”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For my situation? Please, there's no need — ”

“You want to exist. I tried to throw away my life. I must seem ungrateful.”

“Not at all,” says Gaster with a furrowed brow. He appears surprised to hear you say that. He ambles closer as if he wants to comfort you but is unsure how to go about doing it. “I am far from incapable of sympathizing with what would drive someone to end their own life, and I am not so petty as to judge you for it simply because of my own misfortune. Besides, it is as you said. You were treated as if you already did not exist. In this respect, we are not so different, are we?” At that, he chuckles mirthlessly.

You aren’t sure the gravity of your circumstances match up to Gaster’s. What is this, a competition?

"I guess."

"Don't trouble yourself with these thoughts," he insists. "I do not think badly of you, so do not think badly of yourself. Surely your traveling companion feels the same?"

You _know_ the answer to that, Frisk. You can't help but feel a tugging at the corner of your lips. 

"Yes," you say. "They do."

"Then the matter's settled," says Gaster firmly. "Would you like to hear more about my experiments?"

He's far from subtle about changing the topic and getting your mind onto something else, but you appreciate his consideration for your feelings.

"Okay," you say.

You wish your biological father cared this much.

You're not the only one.

You place your hand on mine. Gaster doesn't comment. He begins to regale you with the details of his much-beloved Experiment 64.

 ...  
  
Despite the impossibility of it, you are more determined than ever to help remedy Gaster's unstable situation. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know how. You think you’ll find a way. You think you must.

Are you going to say as much? Will you make promises you can't keep, Frisk? That's not like you.

False hope will destroy him better and more thoroughly than a lab accident ever could. You know that, right?

 _It's not false hope,_ you insist. As long as you don't give up, you'll succeed like you always have.

...This is one of the fundamental differences between us.

Don't say I didn't warn you. We'll see the remaining light drain from his eyes before long.


	20. technical difficulties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a two-parter, as well as fairly ridiculous.

It’s the last Friday of the month, which means it’s Karaoke Night once again at Alphys and Undyne’s house. You’re always looking forward to it. You don’t have the most polished singing voice, but when you give it your all you never fail to have a blast. Last time, Undyne topped things off with a particularly _spirited_ rendition of A Cruel Angel’s Thesis. You and Alphys awarded her a standing ovation in spite of the splitting headache you acquired because of it.

Tonight, Alphys promises she has something special planned. You can’t wait. I’m wary of what this means. We already know that Papyrus and Sans are going to be there. What else could she have up her sleeve?

☆ ☆ ☆

You arrive at Undyne and Alphys' house as dusk falls. Papyrus insisted he drive you — I had to convince you to agree. You're not a burden for accepting, Frisk.

As you approach the entrance, you hear loud swearing coming from the inside.

Sounds like everything’s going _great._

Papyrus’ hands clamp over your ears. “Undyne!” he grumbles disapprovingly.

Ha. You’re twelve years old. You can handle a bad word or two.

You knock on the door. Despite Papyrus’ attempts to shield you from potentially hearing more profanities, you do overhear something — a conversation.

“I’m going to DROP KICK this stupid thing into the NEXT CENTURY, Alphy!”

“P-please don’t, it was kind of expensive.”

You knock harder.

“Oh, ffff — already?!”

“...I-I’ll get the door.”

A sheepish Alphys greets you. Several feet behind her is Undyne glaring murderously at the karaoke machine set up in the center of the room.

“S-sorry,” Alphys says, taking note of Papyrus’ hands protecting your ears. “Um. Undyne didn’t know F-Frisk was here.”

“I SHOULD HOPE NOT,” Papyrus says. “FOUL LANGUAGE IS COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE FOR SOMEONE OF THEIR TENDER AND IMPRESSIONABLE AGE.”

“Can it, Papyrus,” Undyne orders from the living room.

“I SHALL BE “CANNING” NOTHING,” he huffs.

“I think you can let go now,” you tell him, not unkindly.

"I DON'T KNOW ABOUT THAT..." says Papyrus.

"I'm not going to swear in front of the friggin' kid!" says Undyne.

"UNDYNE! THAT... TECHNICALLY ISN'T A SWEAR. ALL RIGHT THEN." Papyrus removes his hands from your ears. "BUT I'LL BE LISTENING! NYEH!"

“So what's the matter?" you ask as Alphys invites the two of you inside.

“The stupid machine's not working," says Undyne. She's achieved an impressive Stage 6 Glower.

“hate it when that happens," says Sans, who was not anywhere near here until right this second.

“Jeez, can you not do that for ONCE?!" Undyne exclaims, whirling on Sans and throwing her hands up into the air. “You're going to give me a heart attack one day!"

“sorry. didn't mean to rattle your bones."

I can almost hear a rimshot.

Undyne jabs a finger at him. “I should kick you out _right now._ "

Sans grins and shrugs in his usual way. That smug creature. “do you really wanna miss out on my comedy routine?”

“This is KARAOKE NIGHT, not Sans’ Stand-Up Comedy Hour!”

“right. my bad. that’s wednesday.”

Undyne gnashes her teeth. “Papyrus, I am going to SUPLEX your brother!”

“UM, PLEASE DON’T. I DON’T THINK HE WOULD LIVE?”

“Uh. Well." Undyne pauses. "...What if I CAREFULLY but STILL PUNISHINGLY suplexed your brother?"

“I’M NOT SURE??”

“Hey, Sans!” Undyne directs her attention back to him. “Are you too much of a weenie to withstand even a DELICATE suplex??”

“yep," he says without a trace of shame.

She cracks up laughing... and then it trails off. She furrows her brow. “Wow. How do you LIVE?"

“i try not to get suplexed, for starters."

“HE HAS ME TO LOOK OUT FOR HIM," adds Papyrus, grinning proudly.

“i'd be skele-done without ya, bro."

“I'M GOING TO PRETEND YOU PHRASED THAT DIFFERENTLY."

“U-Undyne, where are the pliers...?” asks Alphys, kneeling beside the karaoke machine. While everyone else was addressing the fine topic of Sans’ mortality, Alphys was getting back to work.

“GAH!” Undyne apparently forget all about the task at hand. “I’ll get 'em, be right back.”

Soon, Undyne and Alphys are disassembling and re-assembling the machine while Papyrus makes helpful suggestions like “SUBSTITUTE THAT PART WITH A BONE, IT WILL DEFINITELY WORK”. Sans takes to napping on the couch, but you get the strangest feeling he might actually still be awake.

“I hope we can get it working,” frets Alphys. “It’s almost time.”

“Time for what?” you ask. “The surprise you mentioned?”

As if on cue, the front door is thrown open. Rose petals blast inside.

“OHHH YESSSSS,” booms a glittery Mettaton EX.

He strikes a pose.

Oh my god.

Alphys shoots you a nervous grin, wiping stray rose petals off of her head. “Surprise?”

“Mettaton!” you and Papyrus shout in unison. Undyne rolls her eyes and continues to busy herself with the machine.

Sans remains asleep.

“THAT’S RIGHT, DARLINGS. THE ONE, THE ONLY METTATON HAS GRACED YOU WITH HIS PRESENCE.” He steps inside and spins on his heel, beckoning towards the open doorway with theatrical flair. “AND DON’T FORGET MY DEAR BLOOKY! GIVE THEM A ROUND OF APPLAUSE, EVERYONE!”

Confetti inexplicably explodes from the ceiling.

You and Papyrus applaud like your lives depend on it as Napstablook reluctantly fades into view. Alphys instead offers a look of sympathy.

“ohhhh,” they say under their breath. “i’m no big deal...... you don’t have to......”

“DON’T BE RIDICULOUS,” Mettaton exclaims, wrapping his robotic arm around his ghostly cousin as best anyone _can_ wrap their arm around an intangible person. You understand the difficulty of this. “WE’RE THE GUESTS OF HONOR AT THIS SHINDIG. SOAK IN THE LOVE. BATHE IN THE ADORATION.”

“i think.... i’ll go hover in the corner....” they mutter. “ that dark one over there.....”

Napstablook proceeds to do exactly that. Mettaton's arm drops.

“WELL," he says, cradling his chin in his hand. “TO EACH THEIR OWN.” He shakes his head, then he swings by the couch Sans occupies, draping himself over it for no apparent reason. “PARDON BLOOKY. THEY GET A BIT ANXIOUS BEFORE IT’S TIME TO PERFORM.”

“DO THEY REQUIRE WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT?” asks Papyrus at a volume that surpasses Mettaton’s. “BECAUSE I KNOW A SKELETON WHO IS VERY GOOD AT ENCOURAGING PEOPLE, AND IS ALSO ME.”

“NO, DARLING, ALL THEY NEED IS SPACE.”

“SHOCKINGLY, SANS COULD HELP WITH THAT!” Papyrus replies. “HE LOVES SPACE.”

You and Mettaton both choose not to comment. He changes the subject, pulling himself upright.

“I’M SURE YOU’VE NOTICED THE COMEBACK OF MY BEAUTIFUL EX FORM?” he asks, striking another unnecessary pose and re-directing the conversation to focus on himself. You noticed that, right, Frisk? “IT’S AMAZING WHAT YOU CAN DO WITH HUMAN TECHNOLOGY,” he adds, sighing fondly. He’s a total fanboy when it comes to surface things.

“YOU’RE GLITTERY!” Papyrus observes. “ALSO LIKE SPACE.”

“I SHINE LIKE THE STAR I AM, DARLING.”

“OH MY GOD,” Papyrus says, folding his arms. “THAT WAS A PUN.”

“WRONG!” A buzzer noise sounds, as if Papyrus has answered incorrectly on a game show. “THAT’S CALLED WORDPLAY. WE’RE A BIG FAN OF IT IN SHOWBIZ.”

“NYEH HEH HEH! DON’T THINK YOU CAN FOOL ME! I HAVE LIVED WITH MY BROTHER FOR LONG ENOUGH TO RECOGNIZE A PUN WHEN I HEAR ONE!”

“Puns are wordplay,” you point out, the only person in this conversation not shouting.

“THE WORST KIND,” says Papyrus.

He’s made puns before, the imbecile.

“SUCH A CONTROVERSIAL OPINION...” says Mettaton. “I THINK I OUGHT TO ASK MY VIEWERS WHAT THEY THINK OF PUNS. CONSIDER THE RATINGS...”

“puns are the best form of humor.” says Sans, opening one eye. “objectively speaking.”

Only when they’re good, Sans. Only when they’re good.

“THAT IS A BLATANT LIE AND YOU KNOW IT,” says Papyrus.

“AH! CONTROVERSY!” exclaims a delighted Mettaton. “OH, WHERE IS MY CAMERA CREW WHEN I NEED THEM?”

“NGAAAHHHH! SHUT UP!” roars Undyne, shooting up from her spot in front of the karaoke machine. “We’re TRYING to WORK here!”

“THE MACHINE’S BROKEN, HMM?” asks Mettaton, sizing up the machine. “TRAGIC. TO THINK WE CAME ALL THIS WAY FOR NOTHING.”

“Nothing?!” shouts Undyne. “I’m _going_ to get the stupid thing working!! Just you watch!!”

“I’M WATCHING, DARLING.”

“Alphys, step aside,” says Undyne. “I’m **done** screwing around with this.”

“U-Undyne, what are you...?”

“Our hearts are beating as one!!” Undyne declares. “All of us, every single one of us, want this stupid hunk of junk to work!!”

“L-like I said, it was expensive,” says Alphys. “It’s not really a hunk of junk...”

“No longer shall it defy us!! TAKE THIS!”

Undyne summons a ring of spears. They spin threateningly around the machine.

“Undyne, w-wait! Y-you’ll destroy it that way!!”

“Maybe it _needs_ to get its ass kicked!”

“LANGUAGE,” says Papyrus.

“It doesn’t w-work that way,” says Alphys. “R-remember when you speared the coffee machine? A-and the washing machine? It only made them m-more broken, and it voided the warranty.”

“...All right,” says Undyne. “Fine. No spears." The ring of glowing blue spears promptly dissipates.

Alphys breathes a sigh of relief, placing a clawed hand over her chest. “Now let’s — ”

Undyne kicks the karaoke machine as hard as she possibly can.

“WORK, DAMN YOU!”

“LANGUAGE, UNDYNE!” insists Papyrus.

The machine wobbles violently.

It turns on.

“...Fuhuhu... fuhuhuhuhuhu!” Undyne fist-pumps and leaps into the air. “I am a GENIUS!”

“Th... that worked,” says an astonished Alphys. “But I don’t know how.”

“My PASSION made it work! Our HEARTS BEATING AS ONE made it work!!”

“A BEAUTIFULLY BRUTISH METHOD OF PROBLEM SOLVING,” says Mettaton. “I GIVE IT A SEVEN OUT OF TEN.”  
  
“A seven?! It’s at LEAST a nine!” says Undyne.

“SEVEN POINT FIVE,” says Mettaton.

“Eight!”

“six,” offers Sans.

“You’re not helping!”

“I THINK,” says Papyrus, “MAYBE WE SHOULD... PERHAPS... PROCEED WITH THE KARAOKE ACTIVITIES...?”

“good idea, bro,” says Sans.

“Yeah, like YOU ever participate,” grumbles Undyne. “You could at least give it a shot instead of taking up valuable couch space like a big bony lump.”

“i have a phd in lazing around,” says Sans, winking. “i’m putting my degree to good use.”

“WAIT," says Papyrus. “I THOUGHT YOUR PHD WAS IN SOMETHING ELSE?”

(...I file this information away for future reference.)

Sans’ doctorate goes unremarked upon by anyone else. Karaoke is obviously _so_ much more interesting. You suggest they may have already known. Hmm.

“So!" says Undyne. “Who’s ready to belt their lungs out until they puke?!”

“THAT SOUNDS TERRIBLE,” says Papyrus.

“i don’t think... ghosts puke.....” Napstablook comments from their spot in the dark corner. They sound resigned. “sorry..... i guess i don’t fit in...”

“Oh my god,” says Undyne, rubbing her forehead. “Okay, no puking. Just somebody start singing already.”

“THAT’S MY CUE!” says Mettaton. “THE BELOVED MONSTER IDOL IS HERE TO ENTERTAIN, DARLINGS!”

He strikes another ridiculous pose, flaunting the legs he’s so in love with. Papyrus cheers, being the biggest Mettaton fan in the room. To my surprise, Mettaton approaches Napstablook rather than the karaoke machine.

“CARE TO JOIN ME, BLOOKY?” he asks, his robotic voice taking on a softer tone.

“ohhh.... i don’t know.....” Napstablook’s figure is dim, as if they might up and fade away completely. "i mix music... i don't sing it...."

"TALENT ISN'T A REQUIREMENT HERE, LET'S BE HONEST."

"but your voice is much better than mine.... i'll make your performance weaker....."

“NONSENSE. WE'RE A DYNAMIC DUO."

Napstablook shakes their head. " _you're_ the idol, mettaton, not me"

"LISTEN CLOSELY," says Mettaton, placing his hand on his hip. "I WON'T MAKE YOU SING WITH ME, BUT THERE’S ALWAYS ROOM ON MY STAGE FOR YOU, BLOOKY.”

Hearing that, Napstablook finally faces him.

A hesitant smile crosses their face.

In time, they’re both singing along to “Death by Glamour”, a remix of the theme to Mettaton’s show. (What an egomaniac.) Mettaton's voice is loud and bold, but Napstablook’s shaky contributions don’t go unheard.

When the song concludes, there’s no need for Mettaton to ask for a round of applause.


	21. the value of fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god, I had such a hard time with this and I'm not even sure why.

“All right! Which of you chumps haven’t gone yet?” asks Undyne, waving the microphone at her guests.

“Me,” you say, raising your hand.

“ALSO SANS,” says Papyrus when Sans fails to respond on his own behalf.

“Yeah, not surprised.” Undyne rolls her eyes. “Come on, lazybones! Show us your burning spirit!”

“i’m not really a burning spirit kind of guy,” says Sans with a yawn. “i’ve got more of a sit around and do nothing spirit.”

“Not to mention an EAT ALL OF MY FOOD spirit,” Undyne says, plucking an empty potato chip bag off of the coffee table. “You come into my house, you raid my fridge, and you don’t even sing karaoke to make up for it? Oh my god.”

“i’m a professional freeloader,” Sans explains.

“Got a PhD in that too?”

“it’s my pride and joy.”

You wish Sans would give it a shot. You know there’s a lot weighing on his mind. Having some fun might lighten the load.

Let him shoulder his burdens, as far as I’m concerned. It’s the least he can do.

But as usual, you disagree with me.

“Sans,” you say, stepping up to the karaoke machine and plucking the available microphone. “Would you like to sing with me?”

Sans glances from you to the microphone in Undyne’s hand to the wall.

“I think you’d enjoy it,” you say. Your eyes, your voice, they’re both unflinchingly earnest.

“...hard to say no to that look,” Sans says, standing up from the couch.

That was... easy.

“MY BROTHER IS ABOUT TO EXPEND THE EFFORT TO DO SOMETHING!” says Papyrus. “IT’S A MIRACLE.”

“You’re something else, Frisk,” Undyne says, eyebrows raised.

She thrusts the microphone into Sans’ hands and gives him a friendly punch to the shoulder. Well. “Punch” is a strong word. It’s more of a delicate tap to accommodate his fragility. Weakling.

“Alright," she says, “Show us what you’re made of! ...And don’t you dare say bones.”

“my punchline," laments Sans. “were you reading my mind?”

Undyne snorts with laughter like it‘s the stupidest questions she‘s ever heard. “Psh! Don’t be stupid. Only humans can read minds.”

“IT SAYS SO IN HER CARTOONS.”

“They’re NOT just cartoons, Papyrus!”

A conversation - slash - argument is ignited between Undyne and Papyrus. Meanwhile, Sans meets you at the karaoke machine.

“alrighty, what’ll it be?”

“Let’s sing something upbeat,” you tell him, scrolling through the available songs.

“i’m kind of a deadbeat.”

That joke is delivered with an unreadable smile, and it doesn’t feel to you like it’s a joke at all.

Frisk, I think I know why he agreed so easily.

“I won’t pick something with a fast tempo, if that’s what you mean.”

You know that’s not what he means.

“nah, i can roll with whatever you pick, buddy.”

I think you should pick a bouncy, energetic pop song that lasts for five minutes at least. Run him into the ground.

You do not take my perfectly good suggestion.

“Here,” you say. “I like this one. It’s a duet between friends. You’ve probably heard it, it gets a lot of radio play.”

Sans listens to the sample. He nods in recognition after hearing the first few notes.

“oh yeah, i know this one. it got a trippy music video, didn’t it?”

You smile. “Yeah, it was pretty surreal. But I kind of liked it?”

(They tried too hard to be quirky, if you ask me.

You ask me if I like to be contrary on purpose.

...Maybe.)

“i had a feeling. you’re a weird kid.”

“Thanks,” you reply, taking it as the fond statement it’s meant to be.

“DARLINGS, ARE YOU GOING TO TALK FOREVER OR GET ON WITH THE SHOW?” Mettaton chimes in from the other end of the room, incapable of minding his own business. He was conversing with Napstablook and Alphys, but it seems his attention is back on the karaoke.

“Ready?” you ask Sans.

“that’s what i should be asking you,” he says. “i don’t sing, uh. ever. so i might be bad.”

“Remember what Mettaton said. Talent isn’t a requirement here.”

“don’t say i didn’t warn ya,” Sans says, and the song kicks into gear.

You are filled with determination.

Your voice is not too soft, not too loud. You take singing seriously, but not enough to lose sight of how it’s supposed to be fun. You get absorbed in the music, tapping your feet and rhythmically nodding your head to the beat. Some notes you strain to hit, being either too high or too low. What you lack in polish and skill you make up for in heart, and that heart of yours swells singing alongside Sans.

Sans doesn’t move around much. At all, actually. It flattens the effect of his voice. Nevertheless, you believe his singing voice has potential. It’s surprisingly good for someone who claims to not sing ever, being deep and smooth. There’s no question he could carry a tune well if he tried.

I could do better.

That realization — and what I should do about it — both strike like a thunderbolt. I grin widely. Hearing the competitive nature of my thoughts puts a lopsided smile on your face, as if you don’t know what else you expected to hear. The thought of me participating in Karaoke Night — of doing something like a still-living person — makes you happy, so you agree to let me take over.

When everyone is done applauding and commenting on Sans’ marginally decent singing voice, you sever your ties to your body and my consciousness fills the space automatically.

“Greetings, comedian,” I say, pulling him aside. I keep my voice low so no one else will hear. “Fancy a round two?”

“if it isn’t ksirf. you didn't strike me as the party going type,” Sans replies. He’s never fazed by my sudden appearances and I hate it.

“I’m not,” I say coolly. “I have a mission.”

“neat. is it secret?”

“No. In fact, let me let you in on it. My mission is to _crush_ you in karaoke.” I make a crushing motion with my fist.

He doesn’t say anything. He starts snickering so quietly I almost don't catch it.

“that sounds pretty serious.”

“Don’t mock me.” I fold my arms.

“me? laugh at you? can’t believe ya think i’d do something like that.”

His eyes are crinkled with amusement.

“Are we doing this or aren’t we?” I snap. Immediately after I glance at Undyne and Papyrus, hoping they didn’t hear. Papyrus doesn’t notice, but Undyne’s facing my direction with a thoughtful frown on her face. 

...How long has she been watching?

I paste a smile onto my face. “So, Sans?” I ask again, sweetly.

“if the kid’s indulging you, i guess i should too, huh?”

“...I’m not sure it’s like you to be this indulgent,” I say.

The smile does not leave my face.

“dunno what you mean.”

“Feeling bad about something? Want to make up for it?” I smile wider. My stare bores into him.

 _Chara,_ you warn. _Don’t._

Frisk —

_Chara._

“don’t read too much into karaoke there, kiddo,” Sans says, fiddling with the microphone in his hand, poker-face officially in full effect.

“Fine,” I say, unfolding my arms. “Whatever. Pick a song.”

I don’t know how to work the machine. I suspect he is aware of this. Rather than object, he starts scrolling through the available music.

“Another duet,” I say.

“you sure like to bark orders. yeesh.” More scrolling. “i kind of figured it’d be a duet, since you said you wanted to crush me.”

“That’s right,” I tell him, smug. “I’m going to completely show you up.”

Once again, he appears amused. He's insufferable.

“scary. can i surrender preemptively?”

“No.”

“darn.”

After a minute of searching, Sans selects a song we’ve both heard before. In this one, the vocalists sing independently of one another rather than combining their voices. That’s fine by me. I’m here to show him up, not harmonize with him.

The song's first few notes begin to play.

I draw upon your determination and grip the microphone tight.

This voice is rougher, louder when it's me at the helm. I put everything I have into my performance, doing my damndest to out-sing him, upstage him, so this ragtag audience won’t even be paying attention when it’s Sans’ turn to take the limelight.

In total contrast, Sans keeps his cool the whole time.

The final lyrics are mine, and I belt them out. The finale is punctuated by the triumphant crashing of cymbals. Sweat’s dripping from my brow. I’m out of breath.

“you’ve got some lungs on you, kid,” Sans says, placing the microphone back in its stand.

“IT WAS VERY LOUD!” says Papyrus.

“I-I didn’t know you could sound like that,” says Alphys. “So, u-um... f-fierce?”

“Yeah, uh, talk about fiery,” adds Undyne.

“It must be my burning spirit coming out,” I say. My voice is hoarse.

“Heh! Something like that, yeah...”

...

Undyne’s not stupid.

That could be a problem.

☆ ☆ ☆

“so?” asks Sans. The karaoke machine is occupied by Undyne, and she’s captured everyone else’s attention — yours included. “didja get the reaction you wanted?”

I glower at the floor.

“guess not,” he says. He holds out a cola. “here.”

I take the cola. “Only because Frisk likes cola,” I say.

“you don’t need to justify your cola-drinking habits to me.”

I feel a sudden and violent urge to take the stupid drink and pour it all over him.

Our barely-started conversation lulls. I’m about to ask him what he wants when out of the blue he says:

“you really hate my guts, huh.”

“Yes, I do. You’re obnoxious, you’re inscrutable, you know things you’re not supposed to, and you failed to protect Frisk even after saying you’d do better.”

“yeah,” he says. “yeah.”

“But Frisk likes you for some absurd reason, so I can carry out only the most petty revenges. Beating you at karaoke, for example.” I squeeze the bottleneck like it's Sans's throat.

Sans makes to drink his cola but doesn’t actually do it. His arm drops to his side. He shoves his other arm into his jacket’s pockets.

“lemme tell you something,” he says. “you were right earlier. correctamundo.”

“You feel guilty,” I say at once.

He doesn't answer directly. He starts to pace the floor.

“i figure the least i can do is sing karaoke with the kid and their hostile friend.”

“That doesn’t make up for anything.”

“nope. but it’d be worse if i didn’t.”

I guess it would be.

“What do you get out of telling me this?” I ask.

“it’s like papyrus says. i don’t tell anybody anything. i wanna know how it feels to be honest for a change.”

“Are you going to admit to Frisk that you caved to their request out of guilt?”

“i don’t wanna ruin this for them.”

“Sounds like honesty isn’t your color, comedian.”

He has no defense against that.

“anyway," he says, “next time you’re gonna have to work on your frisk imitation skills. undyne's onto you."

“Tell me something I don't know," I mutter.

“y’know, you could tell everybody that you live in frisk's head. they're open-minded. they’d welcome you."

“No thanks," I say, leaning back against the wall and crossing my ankles.

“i take it that means you’re not gonna spill the beans on your real name either.”

“Absolutely not.”

“dunno why you’d hide it unless you’re an infamous criminal or something, and i’m pretty sure you’re just a kid.”

“A dead kid,” I tell him, swirling around the liquid in the cola bottle. “Who was once someone’s child. Would you want to hear that your child’s soulless spirit is now a parasite in someone else’s body?”

“when you put it that way, i guess not,” he says. “but it’s just us. frisk’s friends.”

...

“right?”

“I’m done with this subject, comedian.” I tilt my head up, eyes drifting to the ceiling.

So much for having fun, Frisk.

...

Fun, huh. That’s right. That’s why you wanted the both of us to participate in this Karaoke Night. So that we could have _fun_ , not talk about guilt or dead children or my grudge against Sans.

I mentally prepare myself for what I’m about to ask. It’s for your sake. You would want to know the answer.

“Comedian. Did you...”

Inhale. Exhale.

“Did you... have fun, singing with Frisk?”

I’m going to be ill.

“why ksirf, i didn’t know you cared.”

“Only because Frisk does,” I growl.

Sans contemplates the question.

“i made the kid happy," is his answer. “that was fun.”

...I choose to accept the honesty of his words.

If I lift this stupid skeleton's spirits sufficiently, you won't have to worry about him. Once more, I say something I otherwise would not.

“Sans."

“yeah?”

“Frisk... likes your singing voice,” I mutter, focusing my attention on something in the opposite direction of Sans.

“huh.” He processes this. He grins, eyes crinkling. He points at me with his cola bottle. “tell ‘em i like theirs too.”

Despite myself, my lips quirk into a smile.

“I shall.”

☆ ☆ ☆

She tries to be subtle, but I see Undyne keeping an uncertain eye on us for the rest of the evening. I tire of perceptive people, Frisk. Can’t they mind their own business?

Karaoke Night thunders to a close with Mettaton and Napstablook’s final duet. Napstablook grew marginally more confident over the course of the evening; you didn’t have to strain your ears as much to hear their voice, and it wavered less. You were proud of them. Mettaton was too.

“i...... did okay......?”

“YOU COULDN’T HAVE DONE BETTER, MY DARLING BLOOKY!”

“ohhh.... i’m happy............. do i look happy...?”

“I SEE THAT YOU’RE TRYING TO, DEAR.”

“It was fun seeing you two again,” you tell them as they prepare to leave. “It’s been a while.”

“WHY DON’T WE EXCHANGE NUMBERS?” asks Mettaton. “IN FACT, I CAN’T BELIEVE I DIDN’T THINK OF IT BEFORE. HERE, GIVE ME YOUR PHONE...”

You hand it over, and Mettaton registers himself in your phone as “The Glamorous Idol MTT”.

“I GET SWARMED WITH MESSAGES FROM ADORING FANS EVERY DAY, BUT I’LL ALWAYS TAKE A CALL FROM YOU.”

“I appreciate it, Mettaton.”

“i’ve been trying to use the phone more often.....” Napstablook adds in a mumble. “can i...... um.....”

“Sure thing,” you say kindly, and Napstablook adds their number to your phone too. By crying on it. You don’t know how that works. They register their name as an ellipsis. You’ll fix that later.

You wave goodbye to Mettaton and Napstablook from the front porch as they leave. A cool nighttime breeze ruffles your hair, the strands flying into your face.

“WE SHOULD BE DEPARTING AS WELL,” says Papyrus, joining you outside. He brushes the hair out of your eyes and removes his scarf, wrapping it around you snugly. The fabric is soft and smells like bones.“FRISK NEEDS THEIR BEDTIME STORY.”

“Bedtime story?” echoes Alphys, clasping her clawed hands together. “That’s adorable.”

You smile sheepishly.

Ever since he found out about the lack of bedtime stories in your life, Papyrus has come by every so often to read you one of his many favorites. You don’t mind that you’re too old for them. It’s the thought that counts.

“SANS,” says Papyrus. “ARE YOU GOING TO GET IN THE CAR OR DO YOUR... THING. YOU KNOW. THAT THING YOU DO.”

“i have no clue what you’re talking about,” says Sans.

And you wonder why I find him insufferable.

“It would be fun if you rode with us,” you say.

“you’re right,” he concedes. “i call shotgun.”

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO CALL SHOTGUN,” says Papyrus, walking to the car. “FRISK ALWAYS SITS IN THE BACK. IT’S SAFER.”

“Doesn’t that mean Sans should sit in the back too?” Undyne asks. “I mean, the airbag would squish him like a pancake.” She claps the palms of her hands together for emphasis.

“THAT’S GROSS, UNDYNE.”

“It’s true!!”

“i call the left seat in the back,” says Sans.

“Why the left seat, specifically?” you ask.

“because it’s the one left over.”

You cover your mouth and laugh at his amateur joke. It doesn‘t even make sense. There are _two_ other seats and you would only occupy _one._

“C’mere,” says Undyne, motioning you over. “I gotta give you a goodbye noogie!”

“N-not too hard, Undyne,” cautions Alphys.

Undyne picks you up and you allow yourself to be noogied.

“Thought you were acting kinda funny,” she whispers. “I don’t know what your deal was, but I’m glad you’re back to being yourself.”

...

You want to tell her the truth.

I don’t want you to tell her the truth.

“Sorry for worrying you,” you whisper back. “I... had a stomachache?”

“You are _way_ too much of a goober to lie well,” she says, flicking your forehead. She sets you down. “I... argh. Look, I won't bug you about it. Just promise not to keep it secret from your mom if something’s wrong. Got it?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you tell her. “I promise that’s true.”

Undyne reads your face. There is nothing but sincerity written on it.

“Okay,” she says, closing her eye for a moment. “I’ll believe that. Now go home and let Papyrus give you your cuddly-wuddly bedtime story!!” She grabs you by your shoulders and shoves you in Papyrus’s direction.

“THEY ARE FOR INTELLECTUALS,” protests Papyrus. “THERE’S MORE TO THEM THAN BEING CUDDLY AND WUDDLY.”

“B-be seeing you,” says Alphys. If she overheard anything you said to Undyne, she’s not giving any indication.

“Oh, hey, Wednesday is our marathon, right?” you quickly ask before you leave.

“Right!” she squeaks. “I-I really think you’re going to love this one. It’s a heartwarming story of how the b-bonds of friendship can overcome anything! A-and I know that sounds generic but I think it’s innovative in the way it handles its subject matter? You’ll, um, you’ll see. I promise it’s good.”

“You have good taste,” you say. “I trust your judgment.”

Alphys beams.

Saying your goodbyes, you get in the car. Sans is, true to his word, sitting in the left-side seat in the back. Papyrus starts the engine. The roof of the car is down. You have an unobstructed view of the moon and stars above. You inhale the fresh air.

 _Did you have fun?_ you ask me.

It wasn’t bad. I’m disappointed I didn’t beat Sans at karaoke.

_It wasn’t a competition to begin with._

Hmph. It was for me.

_Anyway, I wouldn’t mind letting you take over more often if you wanted to._

Yeah, right. We learned today I can’t pretend to be you. I’m no good at it.

_We don’t have to keep this a secret forever, Chara._

If I reveal myself, people will start asking questions I don’t want to answer.

_You don’t have to answer them. It’s okay not to._

...

_Think about it? I feel guilty that I get to interact with everything and everyone and you don’t._

That’s ridiculous! Stop feeling guilty.

_It doesn’t work like that._

It should.

_The point is, I don’t want you to miss out on what I get to experience. I want you to be happy._

You moron. I... am happy. I may not have a body most of the time, but I have you.

_...I’m glad to have you too. That we’re partners._

And that’s enough for me, Frisk.

...

But I haven’t convinced you that it is.

...

Frisk, one more thing.

_Hm?_

The comedian says he likes your singing voice.

_Thanks for passing the message along, Chara._

Why weren’t you listening to us while we conversed, Frisk?

_I wanted to hear the karaoke._

Weren’t you afraid of what I’d say to Sans? That I might be cruel?

_Not really. I believe in you._

That you do. For reasons I fail to comprehend, you do.

The two of us spend the rest of the car ride in companionable silence. Papyrus turns on the radio to a station he likes. Sans watches the stars. You lean against the door and your eyes flutter shut.

You had fun.


	22. empty

It’s a beautiful day outside.

The snow has melted, the cold weather vanquished by spring’s wide blue skies and warm winds. You like spring. It’s the season of change: of baby animals stumbling into this world, colorful swathes of flowers decorating once-barren fields.

On this good day, you’re sitting on a swing set, hands wrapped around its rusted metal chains. You sway back and forth, scuffing the dirt with your shoes: that old and worn pair of sneakers you can’t let go of. The swing creaks beneath your weight.

“It’s been a while since we last saw him,” you say.

“Gaster?” I ask from where I’m sitting: the swing beside you. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

You get up off your swing. The chains jingle.

“No,” you tell me. “Flowey.”

☆ ☆ ☆

“Oh boy,” says Flowey, bathed in the thick ray of sunlight that streams through the hole in the ceiling. “You’re here again.”

He’s grimacing, eyes askance.

“I brought you something to read,” you tell him, holding up a book in your left hand. You know how bored he gets.

“Gee,” he says. “Thanks.”

You set the book in the corner where you put all of the things you bring to Flowey. Books, pictures, trinkets. He’s destroyed a few of them in fits of anger. He’s paid attention to others. The last book you left him is not dusty. You don’t know if he read it, but he must have flipped through it.

You sit down across from him in the flowerbed that blooms above where my corpse is buried. This place, the fated place in the Ruins where we first met, is almost nostalgic to me.

Flowey hates it. He hates it and the entire rest of the Underground, too large and empty for any living thing to inhabit by its lonesome.

(Yet he does not leave.)

“I’m not Asriel,” he wryly points out. He has said those three words so many times to you.

“I know,” you say as you always do.

“I’ll never be Asriel again. He’s gone _forever._ ”

“...I know,” you repeat, though you ever struggle to accept it.

“So why?” he asks. “Why do you come down here?”

You steeple your fingers together in your lap.

“Because you’re alone.”

“You _pity_ me.” He’s disgusted. With you, with himself  — I don’t know who.

“I feel sorry for you.”

“That’s what we call “pity”, Frisk.” He forces out a laugh. “I can’t believe what I’ve been reduced to.”

“I’m sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry?” He cackles. “I’m big, bad Flowey! Your best nightmare! I killed you over and over again for _fun._ ” He contorts his face into a devil’s grin.

“That doesn’t change how I feel.”

"I’ve killed _everyone_ over and over again because I _could._ I told you that, right?”

“Yes. Several times, in fact.”

Flowey’s grin freezes on his face. It turns rueful.

“...Why do you feel anything for me?”

(Because you’re you, Frisk.)

“Because someone has to. Because you didn’t ask to become what you are.”

His petals droop, casting a heavy shadow over his face.

“You really are an idiot.”

“That’s fine by me.”

He lifts his head a fraction, eyes focusing directly on you.

“You’re stupid. I can’t believe it. You’re unbelievably stupid,” he growls.

“If you say so.”

His voice raises in pitch. His grin returns, plastered-on.

“You’re a total moron! You’re dumb! You're a _dolt!_ You’re an IDIOT.”

There’s a frantic desperation to his words.

The insults ring hollow. They do not pierce your heart.

He retreats from the light and refuses to face you.

“ _I don’t understand,_ ” he whispers. “I don’t. Understand.”

“You don't have to understand," you say.

Flowey makes a pathetic noise.

...

You don’t think you’re going to make any progress with him today.

☆ ☆ ☆

The next time you visit, the pages of the book you gave him have been torn out and littered all across the room.

You patiently pick up the scattered pieces and put them in a pile to be properly disposed of later.

Flowey mocks you for wasting your time.

☆ ☆ ☆

“You _wish_ I were Asriel,” he accuses. “You think you’ll see some traces of him in me, but nope. It’s just me! Flowey!”  
  
He never stops trying to get under your skin.  
  
“I wish Asriel were here,” you say, “That’s true.”

“See?” He sneers.

“But that’s unrelated. _You’re_ here. You matter too.”

“You’ll stop thinking that way,” Flowey says. “You’ll give up on me eventually. Anyone with a brain would.”

“I won’t.”

“You should. I have no SOUL, Frisk. There’s nothing inside of me you can reach out to.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Golly, you are so STUPID!” he says, and he laughs.

He keeps laughing.

He laughs until it hurts.

...

It hurts.

☆ ☆ ☆

“Do you remember what it feels like to care about people?”

“Golly, do I ever!” says Flowey with false enthusiasm. “But the past is the past. I can't recapture those feelings. I couldn’t make myself feel love again even if I wanted to.”  
  
You've been wondering...

“ _Do_ you want to?”

Flowey’s round face goes curiously blank. There is a delay before he answers.

“I wanted to. Once.”

“Are you sure you still don't?"  
  
Flowey opens his mouth like he’s going to speak. He stops himself. He reconsiders his words.

“...You don’t know how it feels, do you?” he asks in an undertone. “Wanting to love someone and not being able to... No, you’re the last person who could EVER understand.”

“I can imagine it’s painful.”

A cold draft wafts into the room, chasing out the balmy air seeping in from above.

He withers.

“It’s so empty, Frisk," he says. "I’m so empty.”

“And I want to help you.”

“You’re making it worse!” he shouts in sudden outrage.

He's... trembling.

“I... am?" you ask, stunned.

A pulse of disappointment is sent my way.

“You don’t understand,” he mutters. "You can't understand."

He burrows into the ground.

...

You brought another book with you today.

You do not leave it in the pile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's been a long time coming. Don't worry, this isn't the last we'll see of Flowey...
> 
> 5/4/16: Made some minor alterations to the text for logic and continuity's sake. ffffff


	23. remorse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the sporadic updates! I'm going through some health issues right now that are making writing difficult.
> 
> This chapter involves suicide and unhealthy relationships.

The day I met Asriel is seared into my mind like a fiery brand.

I had put on my favorite clothes that morning and left the house like it was a perfectly ordinary day. I took a bus, and as I paid the fare, the old bus driver gave me an offhanded warning about “hanging around a place like this". I nodded politely, and the minute he was out of sight I set off straight for the forsaken mountain.

My mind was hazy as I trekked to the top. I had no coherent thoughts beyond my desire to disappear completely and utterly. To be liberated from this worthless world; for whatever curse this peak held to take my life as it had taken the lives of all the others. I didn’t care how. All that mattered was that I died.

I fell into the cavern accidentally, my foot snagging on a root. I’d have jumped if I had the chance.

I could have been skewered over jagged rocks, drowned in a rushing river stream. Instead, I fell unceremoniously into the dirt and survived. It was a miracle.

(Isn’t it funny that miracles happen to people like me and not the ones who need them? Ask for them? _Deserve_ them?)

My entire body was in agony. I was hurt but not dead, and I had no further means by which to end my life. My emotional numbness began to give way to fear — fear of pain. I couldn’t stand to hurt any longer. I called out for help.

And somebody came.

A little goat monster with gentle brown eyes approached me with cautious concern. I did not protest as he slung his arm around my shoulders, lifting me to my feet.

We exchanged names as he walked me away from the flowerbed, towards help. Towards hope.

It was the beginning of the end.

 ☆ ☆ ☆

 

 

I am not a good person.

Being adopted by the Dreemurrs did not change that facet of myself.

Despite how they welcomed me into their home and treated me as one of their own, I was not always kind to them. (A symptom of my humanity, a testament to how the world shaped me, though it excuses nothing.)

I laughed when we accidentally poisoned Asgore. It isn’t that I did not love him, but... I didn’t feel anything when he suffered. In this way, I was as empty as that flower.

I pressured Asriel into our foolish, fatal pact. I wanted my soft-hearted, _merciful_ friend to be complicit in taking lives. To “free everyone”.

(Frisk, what I wanted most was to see my village burn.)

I did not care how the weight of death on his conscience might affect him.

It was the easiest thing in the world to manipulate his tender feelings. He never had the heart to defy me.

That didn’t change until the final hour.

He was right to deny me the bloodshed I sought.

I did not deserve him, Frisk.

Any of them.

And if I had only been a better person, a person like you, maybe the wretch known as Flowey would have never come to be.

...

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry.

 ☆ ☆ ☆

 

 

Flowey is a husk of what once was Asriel. For that reason alone, I have grounds to despise him.

Flowey tormented you, killing you again and again for his own sick enjoyment and then he _mocked_ you for it. More reason to despise him. To commit such crimes against _you_ of all people is an unforgivable sin.

Yet, contradictory feelings are bubbling up within whatever passes for my heart. I shouldn’t give in to this sentimentality, but I cannot help it. With your blessing, I depart from our home one evening and make the journey back to the beginning of the Ruins.

 ☆ ☆ ☆

 

 

The echoes of my footsteps bounce against the cavern’s walls. My empty hand grasps in vain for a Worn Dagger.

I enter _his_ room, and before me is a flower dyed in the gloaming’s blue hues.

“It’s me, Chara," I say. My voice rings out.

“Chara,” The flower repeats, bearing a look of surprise that soon contorts into a pained smile. “It’s been so long.”

“Don’t expect me to believe you missed me,” I say.

I’m filled with a desire to cut this imposter down. Gash open his face, rip off his petals, stab and stab until he’s as good as dust.

But even if I had a weapon, I wouldn’t do that.

I don’t know if I’m angry or relieved.

Flowey’s smile flattens. Then he laughs, that disgustingly familiar “hee hee hee!”.

“I always liked this about you, Chara,” he says. “You don’t spare anyone’s feelings. Not even those of your best friend.”

“You’re not my best friend,” I snap, though that statement is not the one that struck a nerve in me.

(I’m... I’m kind to _you_ , aren’t I?

Am I?)

“Then why are you here?” Flowey asks, canting his head to the side in an exaggerated motion. The corners of his mouth curve upward. “Don’t you have anything better to do than waste your time on a flower you don’t love anymore?”

(If nothing else, I did love Asriel.

Didn’t I?

Would it change anything?)

“Plenty,” I say.

“Sooo,” he says, “why not go do those things?”

“Because I’m curious to see how miserable you are.” I fold my arms and speak with frosty conviction, glaring down at him.

Flowey blinks once or twice, and then he bursts into cackling laughter.

“Well gee!” he says when he’s barely recovered his composure. “That means you’re in for a real treat!”

 ☆ ☆ ☆

 

 

“You get it, don’t you?” he asks me after confirming that you are not listening. “Why I treat Frisk the way I do?”

Flowey believes that if there is anyone out there who can understand him, it’s me.

“You put on a pretense of hatred,” I state, idly twirling the stem of a plucked flower beneath my thumb and forefinger, “because you are a dishonest fool.”

“Hee hee hee! You show no mercy.”

“You haven’t earned it,” I say. I tear a petal off of the flower I hold with more force than is required, his observation making my stomach twist unpleasantly. It’s all right to be merciless to Flowey. There’s nothing wrong with it.

Yes. He killed you. That’s justification enough.

I continue on without betraying my thoughts. “In truth, you feel bad about what you’ve done. As you _should_ , you wretch.”

The petal flutters to the ground.

Flowey doesn’t disagree with me.

“That’s not all there is to it, you know,” he adds.

“You want to love them," I say quietly.

The truth is, you were the first one to figure that out.

“And I want to love _you_ , Chara," he tells me, petals sagging. “Whether or not you’ve come to hate me. I remember how it feels and I want to love _someone._ "

“These memories of love. They hurt you."

“Imagine you're dying of starvation," he tells me, “and every second of every day you can vividly remember what your favorite food tastes like... It would be torture!"

“That’s interesting,” I say, plucking another petal. “I thought torture was right up your alley?”

I cannot let him forget what he did to you.

“...It's strange," says Flowey softly, staring into the dusky sky above. “Feeling guilt again."

He does not appear comfortable with the sensation.

“I can only imagine how much LOVE you accumulated.”

“As much as there is to obtain,” he says, and then he shakes his head, adding ruefully, “and even that got boring.”

It strikes me that there is still so much I don’t know about what my best friend did once he turned into this _thing._

(Have I the right to call him my best friend?)

“Chara, why does Frisk forgive me?” he asks.

“Good question,” I say, and do not elaborate.

He smiles wryly. “No, really.”

“Because they are Frisk. That’s the best explanation I have.” I release the flower. It drops into the flowerbed and disappears amongst its brethren. From where I sit, I take a cue from Flowey (what a thing to say) and lean back on my arms to stare up into the distant heavens. “They forgive everyone.”

“I still don’t understand. How can someone like that exist?”

“...You maxed out your LOVE,” I say slowly. “They maxed out their love.”

Flowey ponders this.

“If they turned into a flower, I don’t think they’d do what I did.”

“Probably not.”

You aren’t capable of cruelty, with or without a SOUL. I would stake everything on this belief.

But If _I_ had been in Flowey’s position, would I have become like him?

...

What a stupid question.

_Of course I would have._

If a monster as kind as Asriel could lose himself and become a sadist, what does that mean for a human already bereft of empathy? I’d have turned into an even worse creature.

I’m capable of terrible things under the right circumstances. I know this.

May those circumstances never come my way.

...I don't want to disappoint you any more than I already must.

 ☆ ☆ ☆

 

 

“Stop bullying Frisk,” I say to Flowey, picking up a mangled book and waving it in his face. “Stop destroying their gifts. And speak honestly to them or not at all.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” says Flowey.

“I’m not giving you an alternative, you imbecile.”

“I have one,” he chirps. “It’ll benefit all of us!”

“I’ll humor you. What is it?”

“...Make this the last time either of you ever see me,” he says, smiling weakly.

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t take it anymore.”

It makes sense, in a way, that he should want to escape from the people he wants to love but will never be able to, as well as the sources of his newfound guilt. Out of sight, out of mind.

What an idiot. As if I would ever agree to that.

“What will you do by yourself? You’ll go mad with boredom so long as you refuse to leave this place. Frisk couldn’t bear that happening.”

Flowey is silent.

“Besides, you deserve some emotional torment, do you not?”

_He killed you so many times._

“...Fine,” he huffs. “Do whatever you want. I don’t have to show up just because you come down here. You’ll make this long, long trek for _nothing_.”

And with that, he burrows defiantly into the dirt.

He will be back.

I know it.

Because Flowey does not want to be alone.

 

 

 

 

☆ ☆ ☆

_How did it go?_

Fine.

_...You don’t sound fine to me, Chara._

I’ve been thinking about some things.

_Do you want to talk about them?_

...No.

_Are you sure?_

...

Frisk, am I...

_Hm?_

Nevermind. It’s nothing. Don’t waste your time on my concerns.


	24. if they just try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter heavily involves an OC.
> 
> Still having health issues. orz

Some time ago, a massive project was completed and a brand new mall opened for business. It’s been advertised as catering to humans and monsters both. There was a great deal of anticipation preceding its opening, as this is the first mall of its kind.

Many monsters have applied for work there. It’s generally tough for them to find employment. A sizable amount of establishments still won’t hire them, for despite your best efforts to change the status quo, few measures are in effect to protect their rights.

The opening day saw healthy crowds — and of course, troublemakers (who were quickly escorted off of the premises by the guards employed there). Since then, business has remained steady. All in all, you’re feeling optimistic about the mall’s future.

As the ambassador, you want to give this establishment your blessing — plus you want to buy some stuff, because _come on_ — so one Saturday afternoon you and Toriel hitch a ride on a bus and head downtown.

Before long, you're walking through the automatic doors. You'd be bouncing up and down with eagerness if you didn't possess a remarkable degree of self-control.

You inhale the fresh and floral scent you that hits you when you enter. The ceilings are soaring and the roof is made of transparent glass, so it’s bright and sunny inside and you can see the puffy clouds lazily passing by overhead. There are countless types of shops to browse: clothing, electronics, home decor, food, toys, sports equipment, books... There’s even a movie theater! It’s almost dizzying the amount of options you have.

“Do you have your phone with you?” Toriel asks you.

You nod your head.

“Good. You will call me if you need anything?”

“Of course, mom.”

“If you get lost, I will come and find you immediately.”

You smile. “I’ll be okay, mom. Don’t worry.”

She returns your smile and pats you on the head. She knows how independent you are, but it’s always been in her nature to worry.

“I believe I’ll visit that bookstore over there,” says Toriel, pointing in its direction. “Where will you go, my child?”

“I’ve got to think about it,” you tell her.

“Very well. Have fun, dear.”

When she departs, you ask me where I’d like to go.

...I don’t know, Frisk. I can’t remember the last time I came to a place like this.

_Wanna catch a movie?_

Have you seen the trailers lately? There is literally nothing good coming out.

_Mm, they have been kind of mediocre. Let’s window-shop for now?_

You’re the one with the body, genius. You make the decisions.

_Your input’s important to me._

You sound like a customer service robot. ‘Your input is very valuable to us!’

You snort-laugh at my gall.

With no destination in mind, you start walking.

☆ ☆ ☆

We pass by a jewelry store. That is not exciting in and of itself. The interesting thing is that Greater and Lesser Dog are stationed nearby, tails wagging furiously at every human or monster who passes them by. They’re carrying batons and are dressed in uniforms.

Their ears perk up at your smell, and then their tails start spinning like a helicopter’s blades when they see you. You don’t know who to pet first, but it doesn’t matter. They completely forget their guard dog duties and rush for you, barking and slobbering all over your face. You laugh and ruffle the fur on their heads. Lesser Dog’s neck stretches upwards.

Careful, Frisk. Keep that up and we’ll have a situation on our hands.

“I missed you guys,” you say, laughing.

Greater Dog gets down on its front paws and barks. Lesser Dog shoves its nose into your hand, asking for more pets.

Someone from inside the store shouts.

“What the hell is going on? Is someone petting the security guards again?!”

Uh oh.

...

Wait a minute, he sounds...

...

A flustered shaggy-haired boy emerges from the jewelry store. The wind is taken out of his sails almost immediately. He freezes in place. Greater and Lesser lift their heads, tails and ears drooping.

“...Get back to work, you two,” he mumbles. “I’ll give you another treat if you can do your job right.”

He pivots on his heel and hurries back into the store, head down, unkempt hair obscuring his eyes.

You give the dogs one last pat before apologizing to them for having distracted them from their duties. They both lick you to demonstrate that there are no hard feelings... or because they’re dogs.

“I can’t believe he works here,” you murmur. “I can’t believe it,” you repeat, a slow smile spreading across your face.

...What? No. Are you kidding me right now? Do you think he’s had a change of heart like he’s the villain of some kid’s anime? This means nothing. Don’t be naive. He’s **human.**

_And so am I and so are you and you know how I feel about this subject. I have to talk to him, Chara._

It will be a depressing waste of your time and little more, I’m telling you.

_Remember the conversation we had that one night?_

...Yes. I know the one you mean.

_He might surprise you. He’s already surprised me._

I’m not holding my breath. And you might get hurt again, Frisk.

_The risk of getting hurt has never stopped me before._

...You wouldn’t be you if it did. But if he tries anything  —

_He won’t. He’ll get fired._

Ugh. Fine! Changing your mind is impossible...

_Trust me. Trust that I’m right about this._

I trust that you think you’re right, Frisk.

Deeming that good enough, you walk into the jewelry store.

☆ ☆ ☆

The jewelry store is conveniently empty, probably because this fool managed to care all the monsters away with his aggressively terribly personality. He’s resting his elbows on the counters, staring vacantly at his phone. The light from the screen reflects onto his face.

“Hello,” you tell him.

He jolts up ramrod-straight, shoving his phone into his pants pocket.

“You,” he says. “...Why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk to you, if you’re not busy.”

“You’re mad about the picture thing,” he assumes. “And... knocking you out...”

Well. Any reasonable person would be fuming. I am.

“I’m not mad,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t want revenge or anything like that.”

“Are you serious?” he asks. He rubs his arm.

“I don’t like violence,” you say.

“No shit,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “No fucking shit.”

...

“What, uh. Happened to you, after that?” he asks meekly. “Your skeleton pal, he... did something and you disappeared.”

I suppose I must credit Sans with having been somewhat useful in that situation, even if he failed to fully protect you.

“Sans brought me to his home where his brother lives. They took care of me. Papyrus stayed at my side until I woke up,” you add as if he’ll care. “That’s Sans’s brother.”

You want to foster empathy towards monsters in this boy.

He hunches his shoulders as if trying to make himself smaller.

“Sans and Papyrus,” he says. “The guys in your picture?”

“Yes,” you say. “They’re good people.”

The boy is too weak to meet your eyes. He examines the counter top instead.

 _It’s guilt,_ you tell me. _He feels guilty._

You re-start the conversation, because it seems he has nothing to say to that.

“How did you start working here?

“...Needed money,” he says. “Bad. Almost nowhere else had any job openings, so I sucked it up and applied.”

“Almost?”

“Everything else was worse than this,” he says, waving a hand meaninglessly. “And I...”

He lifts his head. Strands of hair stick to his face.

“...Listen, when you jumped in front of that skeleton — Sand?”

“Sans.”

“Him. I didn’t _get_ it, why somebody would do that for a monster. And what you said kind of... stuck with me. So when this opening became available...” He gnaws at his thumbnail. “I needed to find out about monsters for myself. It would drive me crazy forever if I didn't... try."

Your heart figuratively skips a beat.

“What do you think of monsters now?” you ask with bated breath.

“...I still think they’re fucking weird. Take those two dogs outside.” He gestures at Lesser and Greater Dog. “They stand on their hind legs and carry batons in their paws. But they’re friendly as hell, so I’m cool with them. I’ve always liked dogs, so...”

“You give them treats,” you say.

The boy’s ears flush red.

“Shut up,” he says, abandoning his nail biting to tug at his hair. “...They’re not like how mom and dad say monsters are.”

A lot of things about the shaggy-haired boy click into place with finality.

“I’m so happy you gave them a chance,” you say. “If you can befriend Lesser and Greater Dog, you can befriend everyone.”

“Uh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” says the boy, raising an eyebrow.

But he cracks a smile when he hears the two dogs outside woofing at one another, and you believe in him.

...

His smile slips from his face.

“Ambassador. Whatever your name is.”

“I’m Frisk.”

“Frisk. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

“Don’t — don’t just forgive me that easily, I haven’t even said what I’m sorry for!”

You let him speak.

He bows his head.

I listen carefully, assessing the sincerity of his apology.

“...I’m sorry I punched you out, and for trying to punch the skeleton, and that I called your friends freaks, and that I tore up your drawing. I’m a real shithead sometimes.”

“I forgive you,” you say again. It would be unlike you to hold a grudge, wouldn't it?

“Just like that?” he asks, frowning.

“You’re sorry. That’s enough for me.”

“Friggin’ bleeding heart pacifist,” he mumbles in disbelief. He clears his throat. “...Uh, hey, are you a friend of those fuzzy guys? They were all over you.”

“We made friends in the Underground,” you say.

“Do you... When it’s time for my break, would you come with me to give them some treats?" he asks. “If you want.”

You grin.

...

I don’t know what to say.

I’ll continue to reserve my judgment.

He’s still just a _human._

☆ ☆ ☆

“All right, you mutts. It’s break time. Come and get your treats.”

The boy is holding a box of MTT brand dog biscuits (???) in the crook of his arm. Lesser and Greater Dog are at his side in a heartbeat, already salivating. Their tails thump against the floor.

The shaggy-haired boy holds out the box to you. You scoop up a big handful of dog treats.

“Not that many!” he says, a little alarmed. You put some treats back in the box.

“Sheesh,” he says. “Spoil them rotten, why don’t you.”

You make to reach back into the box and the boy hastily jerks it away.

“I was being sarcastic!” he exclaims.

You chuckle.

The dogs tilt their heads, wondering when you’ll fork over the biscuits.

“Here you go, you ingrate,” the boy says, tossing a treat at Greater Dog. It snaps it up out of the air.

You hold a treat out in your palm for Lesser Dog, who similarly gobbles it up. Your palm is now covered in dog drool. You don’t mind too much, wiping your hand on your shirt.

“I almost forgot,” you say. “I don’t know your name.”

“You really want _my_ name?” he asks. Yes, Frisk, do you really? Isn’t “the shaggy-haired boy” a good enough descriptor? Does he deserve to be referred to by name?

“Yes.” You answer us both without missing a beat.

Truth be told, I knew the answer before you even said it. You want to connect with everyone. That's your nature.

The boy shrugs, evidently not getting it but complying anyway. “It’s Terrence.”

Greater and Lesser Dog woof in recognition of the familiar name. You ruffle the fur around Lesser Dog’s neck, which starts to stretch again.

“Oh god,” Terrence says. “That. The neck thing. That is so freaky.”

You continue to pet Lesser Dog. The infamous neck inches upward, seeking the freedom of the sky. Or something. I really don’t know why it does that.

“I wish my neck could stretch,” you say. “If it got high enough, I could gaze down at everything from a bird’s eye view.”

...Okay, Frisk.

“No one wonder you’re their ambassador,” he says. “You’re as weird as they are.”

He pauses.

“That came out wrong.”

You let it slide right off your back. “They’re only weird to you because you’re not used to them,” you say. “The longer you spend here, the more normal they’ll seem.”

“...Guess so,” Terrence says. He tosses another biscuit at Greater Dog. “Hey, Ambassador.”

“Hm?”

The boy doesn't respond immediately, chewing his nails again.

“...At first, I thought... you’d turned your back on your own kind for a bunch of inhuman freaks. I really hated you for it... I thought bullying you would serve you right.”

I experience the sensation of adrenaline rushing through my veins.

Another treat goes to Greater Dog. You calmly pet Lesser Dog, whose neck continues to extend upwards.

“When the skeleton showed up, I got scared. And then I got mad because I was scared. And because I was mad, I got violent. 'Cause monsters are the enemy: showing up out of nowhere, acting like they’re people, disrupting our daily lives and throwing everything into chaos, posing a danger to us all...”

It’s **humanity** that poses the true threat!

...

But I remember something you thought.

_An inverted echo of myself._

And something in the area of my stomach flip-flops.

Greater Dog whines. The boy tosses the dogs some more biscuits.

As you scratch behind Lesser Dog’s ears, you suspect Terrence may be quoting his own parents.

“I hated you all so much,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“But you’ve changed,” you say.

...

“I still don't totally get 'em, and they freak me out sometimes, but shit... I don't want to hurt monsters, or anyone else. If somebody hurt these dogs, I'd...”

He clenches his fist. Then, he closes his eyes for a beat.

“Again, I’m really sorry for what I did. Is there anything I can do to make things right?”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

I disagree vehemently.

“Look,” he presses. “I want to.”

“How about this?” you say. “I want you... to keep trying to get to know the monsters.”

“...I can do that,” Terrence says.

“Do they still scare you?” you ask.

He cringes. “Not... _scared_ -scared...”

“Being sort-of scared will pass eventually too,” you assure him.

“You’re, uh. Good at this ambassador stuff,” says the boy.

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it. “I want everybody to be able to understand each other, so I do my best to make that happen.”

“A whole world like that might be asking for too much,” he says. “But I get it. If anybody can accomplish that, it’s probably a pacifistic sap like you.”

His words fill you with pride.

Terrence hands one final treat to Lesser and Greater Dog as his break comes to an end.

“Got to get back to work,” he says. “That means you mutts too!”

The dogs both rise to attention, as eager to resume their Very Important Duties as they are to down entirely too many dog treats. They would almost appear professional if they weren’t so adorable.

— Not that _I_ find them adorable. It’s simply that other people would. Like you. That’s all.

“Okay,” you tell him. “I’ll be seeing you, then.”

“Wait, one more thing. Tell Sans I'm sorry?”

"Can do."

The boy waves goodbye, and my head churns with thoughts like a stormy ocean. It’s... going to take time for me to process what took place here.

You don’t say “I told you so”. For the rest of the day you give me my space as I digest the boy’s words and actions.

...

My suspicious nature remains true, but I will say one thing.

He surprised me.


End file.
